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DERELICTS 


By  WILLIAM  J.  LOCKE 


Author  of  "Idols,"  "Septimus,"  "The  Beloved 
Vagabond,"  etc. 


A.  L.  BURT  COMPANY 

Publishers  New  York 


or.  (^i>-' 


Copyright  i8gy 
By  John  Lane  Company 


?R 

DERELICTS 
Part  I 

CHAPTER   1 

BEYOND    THE    PALE 

**  Warm  day,"  said  the  policeman. 

The  man  thus  addressed  looked  up  from 
the  steps,  where  he  was  sitting  bareheaded,  and 
nodded.  Then,  rather  quickly,  he  put  on  his 
hat. 

"  Not  much  Bank  Holiday  hereabouts.'* 

"  So  much  the  better,"  said  the  man. 

"  It  *s  all  very  well  for  them  as  likes  it," 
said  the  policeman,  wiping  his  forehead. 

It  was  the  first  Monday  in  August,  and  his 
beat  was  not  a  lively  one.  Curiosity  had  at- 
tracted him  toward  the  sitting  figure,  and  the 
social  instinct  prompted  conversation.  Receiv- 
ing, however,  an  uninterested  nod  in  reply  to 
his  last  remark,  he  turned  away  reluctantly  and 
continued  his  slow  tramp  up  the  street-. 


1522278 


Derelicts 

The  man  took  no  notice  of  his  departure, 
but,  resting  his  chin  on  his  hands,  gazed  wist- 
fully across  the  road.  Why  he  had  come 
here  to  Holland  Park  he  scarcely  knew.  Per- 
haps, in  his  aimless  walk  from  his  lodgings  in 
Pimlico,  he  had  unconsciously  followed  a  once 
familiar  track  that  had  brought  him  to  a  spot 
filled  with  sweet  and  bitter  associations. 

The  blinds  were  drawn  in  the  great  house 
opposite  that  stared  white  in  the  noonday  sun. 
A  beer-can  hanging  on  the  area  railings  an- 
nounced the  caretaker.  Like  most  of  the 
mansions  in  the  long,  well-kept  street,  it  seemed 
abandoned  to  sun  and  silence. 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  seen  the  house 
since  the  cloud  had  fallen  upon  his  life.  Once 
its  interior  had  been  as  familiar  to  him  as  his 
own  boyhood's  home.  Its  inmates  gave  him 
flattering  welcome.  He  was  courted  for  his 
brilHant  promise  and  admired  for  his  good 
looks.  A  whisper  of  feasting  and  riotous  liv- 
ing that  hovered  around  his  reputation  caused 
him  to  be  petted  by  the  household  as  the  prod- 
igal cousin*  The  comforts  of  wealth,  the 
charm  of  refinement,  the  warmth  of  affection, 
were  his  whenever  he  chose  to  knock  for  ad- 
mittance at  that  door.     Now  he  had  lost  them 

2 


Beyond   the   Pale 

all,  as  irrevocably  as  Adam  lost  Eden.  He  was 
an  outcast  among  men.  Not  only  had  he  for- 
feited his  right  to  mount  the  steps,  but  he 
knew  that  the  very  mention  of  his  existence 
in  that  household  brought  shame  and  fierce 
injunctions  of  silence. 

He  gazed  at  the  drawn  blinds  of  the  deserted 
house  in  an  agony  of  hopelessness,  craving  the 
warm  sympathy,  the  laughter,  the  dear  human 
companionship,  the  mere  sound  of  his  Christian 
name  which  he  had  not  heard  uttered  for  over 
two  years  —  ever  since  he  had  entered  by  that 
gate  above  which  the  lasciate  ogni  speranza 
seemed  written  in  letters  of  flame.  The  lines 
deepened  on  his  face.  The  touch  of  a  friendly 
hand,  a  kind  glance  from  familiar  eyes,  the 
daily,  unnoted  possession  of  millions,  were  to 
him  a  priceless  treasure,  forever  beyond  his 
reach.  He  was  barely  thirty.  His  life  was 
wrecked.  Nothing  lay  before  him  but  pariah- 
dom,  and  slinking  from  the  gaze  of  honest  men. 
And  within  him  there  burnt  no  fiery  sense  of 
injustice  to  keep  alive  the  flame  of  noble 
impulse  —  only  self-contempt,  ignominy,  the 
ineffaceable  brand  of  the  gaol. 

It  was  on  the  pavement  opposite  that  he  had 
been    arrested.       He    had   tripped   down   the 

3 


Derelicts 

steps  in  evening  dress,  his  ears  buzzing  with 
the  laughter  within,  in  spite  of  tremulous  throb- 
bings  of  his  heart,  and  had  walked  into  the 
arms  of  the  two  quiet  officers  in  plain  clothe? 
who  had  been  patiently  awaiting  his  exit.  From 
that  moment  onward  his  life  had  been  one  pain 
and  horror.  Regained  freedom  had  brought 
him  little  joy  —  had  brought  him  in  fact  in- 
creased despair.  During  the  last  few  months 
of  his  imprisonment  he  had  yearned  sicken- 
ingly  for  the  day  of  release.  It  had  come. 
Sometimes  he  regretted  the  benumbed  hours 
of  that  mid-time  in  gaol,  when  pain  had  been 
lost  in  apathy.  He  had  been  free  for  five 
months.  In  all  probability  he  would  be  free 
for  the  rest  of  his  life.  Sometimes  he  shud- 
dered at  the  prospect. 

The  policeman  again  passed  by,  and  thi* 
time  eyed  him  askance.  Why  was  he  sitting 
on  those  steps  ?  A  suspicion  of  felonious 
purpose  relieved   the    monotony  of  his    beat, 

"  You  '11  be  moving  on  soon,"  he  said 
"  You  must  n't  doss  on  them  doorsteps  al 
day." 

The  man  looked  at  him  rather  stupidly. 
His  first  impulse  was  one  of  servile  obedience 
—  an  instinct  of  late  habit,  and  he  rose  from 

4 


Beyond   the   Pale 

his  seat.  Then  his  sense  of  independence 
asserted  itself,  and  he  said,  in  a  somewhat 
defiant  tone  :  — 

"  I  felt  faint  from  the  heat.  You  have 
no  right  to  molest  me." 

The  poHceman  glanced  at  him  from  head  to 
foot.  A  gentleman  evidently,  in  spite  of  well- 
worn  clothes  and  gloveless  hands  thrust  into 
trousers  pockets.  He  wore  no  watch-chain, 
and  his  shirt-cuffs  were  destitute  of  links. 
"  Down  upon  his  luck,"  thought  the  policeman  ; 
"  ill  too."  The  man's  face  was  pinched,  and 
of  the  transparent  white  of  a  thin,  fair  man  with 
delicately  cut  features.  His  eyes  were  heavy, 
deeply  sunken,  and  wore  an  expression  of 
weariness  mingled  with  fear.  The  side  muscles 
by  his  mouth  were  relaxed,  as  if  a  heavy  droop- 
ing moustache  had  dragged  them  down ;  the 
scanty  blonde  hair  on  his  upper  lip,  curled  up 
at  the  ends,  contrasted  oddly  with  this  impres- 
sion. He  looked  careworn  and  ill.  His  clothes 
hung  loosely  upon  him.  The  policeman  sur- 
rendered his  point. 

"Well,  you  ain't  obstructing  the  traffic,"  he 
replied  good-humouredly ;  and  again  he  left 
the  mari  *lon'>,  who  reseated  himself  on  the 
shady  steps,  as  if  dismclined  to  stir  from  com- 

5 


Derelicts 

fortable  quarters.  But  the  spell  of  his  medita- 
tions had  been  broken.  He  leaned  his  head 
against  the  stone  pillar  of  the  balustrade  and 
tried  to  think  of  occupation  for  the  day.  He 
longed  for  to-morrow,  when  he  could  resume 
his  weary  search  for  work,  interrupted  since 
Saturday  noon.  At  £rst  he  had  plunged 
into  the  hopeless  task  with  feverish  anxiety, 
humiliated  by  rebuffs,  agonised  through  the 
frustration  of  idle  hopes.  Now  it  had  grown 
mechanical,  a  daily  routine,  devoid  of  pain  or 
joy,  to  drag  himself  through  the  busy  streets 
from  office  to  office  and  from  shop  to  shop. 
He  resented  the  Sunday  cessation  of  work,  as  in- 
terfering with  the  tenor  of  his  hfe.  This  Bank 
Holiday  added  another  Sunday  to  the  week. 

The  heat  and  glare  and  soundless  solitude 
of  the  street  made  him  drowsy.  The  thought 
of  death  passed  through  him :  an  euthanasia  — 
to  fade  there  peacefully  out  of  existence.  And 
then  to  be  picked  up  dead  on  a  doorstep  —  a 
fitting  end.  Finis  coronat  opus.  He  sniffed 
cynically  at  the  idea.  The  minutes  passed. 
The  shade  gradually  encroached  upon  the 
sunlight  of  the  pavement.  A  cat  from  one 
of  the  great  deserted  houses  drew  near  with 
meditative  step,  smelt  his  boots,  and,  in  the 

6 


Beyond  the   Pale 

bored  manner  of  her  tribe,  curled  herself  up 
to  slumber.  A  butcher's  cart  rattling  past 
awoke  the  man,  and  he  bent  down  and  stroked 
the  creature  at  his  feet.  Then  he  became 
aware  of  a  figure  approaching  him,  along  the 
pavement  —  a  tiny  woman,  neatly  dressed. 
He  watched  her  idly,  with  lack-lustre  gaze. 
But  when  she  came  within  distance  of  saluta- 
tion, their  eyes  met,  and  each  started  in  recog 
nition.  He  rose  hurriedlv  and  made  a  step 
as  if  to  cross  the  road,  but  the  little  lady 
stopped  still. 

"  Stephen  Chisely  ! " 

She  mo\  ed  forward  and  laid  a  detaining  touch 
upon  his  arm,  and  looked  up  questioningly 
into  his  face  :  — 

"  Won't  you  speak  to  me  ?  ** 

The  voice  was  so  soft  and  musical,  the 
intonation  so  winning,  that  he  checked  his 
impulse  of  flight;  but  he  stared  at  her  half 
bewildered. 

"  You  have  n't  forgotten  me  —  Yvonne 
Latour  ?  "  she  continued. 

"  Forgotten  you  ?  No,"  he  replied,  slowly. 
"  But  I  am  not  accustomed  to  being  recog- 
!iised." 

"  The  world  is  very  full  of  hateful  people/' 
7 


Derelicts 

she  said.  "  Oh !  how  wretchedly  ill  you  are 
looking!  That  was  why  you  were  sitting 
down  on  the  doorstep.     My  poor  fellow ! " 

There  was  a  suggestion  of  tears  in  her  eyes 
He  turned  his  head  away  quickly. 

"  You  must  n't  talk  to  me  like  that,"  he 
said,  huskily.  "  I  'm  not  fit  for  you  to  speak  to. 
When  I  went  under,  I  went  under  —  for  good 
and  all.  Good-bye,  Madame  Latour  —  and 
God  bless  you  for  saying  a  kind  word  to  me." 

"Why  need  you  go  away?  Walk  a  little 
with  me,  won't  you  ?  We  can  go  along  to 
the  Park  and  sit  quietly  and  talk." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  it  —  that  you  would 
walk  with  me  —  in  the  public  streets.'*" 

"  Why,  of  course,"  she  replied,  with  a  little 
air  of  surprise.  "  Did  we  not  have  many  walks 
together  in  the  old  days .''  Do  you  think  I 
have  forgotten  ?  And  you  want  friends  so,  so 
badly  that  even  poor  little  me  may  be  of  some 
good.     Come." 

They  moved  away  together,  and  walked 
some  steps  in  silence.  He  was  too  dazed 
with  the  sudden  realisation  of  his  yearning  for 
human  tenderness  to  find  adequate  speech. 
At  last  he  said  harshly ;  — 

"  You  know  what  you  are  doing  ?  You  are 
8 


Beyond   the   Pale 


in  the  company  of  a  man  who  committed  a 
disgraceful  crime  and  has  rotted  in  a  gaol  for 
two  years." 

"  Ah,  don't  say  such  things,"  said  Madame 
Latour.  "  You  hurt  me.  There  are  hun- 
dreds of  people  in  this  great  London,  hon- 
oured and  respected,  who  have  done  far  worse 
than  you.  Hundreds  of  thousands,"  she 
added,  with  exaggerated  conviction.  "  Be- 
sides, you  are  still  my  good,  kind  friend. 
What  has  passed  cannot  alter  that." 

"  I  can't  understand  it  yet/'  he  said  lamely. 
"  You  are  the  first  who  has  said  a  kind  word 
to  me" 

"  Poor  fellow  !  "  said  Yvonne  again. 

They  emerged  into  the  Bayswater  Road. 
Before  he  had  time  to  remonstrate,  she  had 
hailed  an  omnibus  going  eastward.  "  We 
will  get  out  at  the  corner  of  the  Park,  You 
must  n't  walk  too  much. 

The  'bus  stopped.  He  entered  with  her 
and  sat  down  by  her  side.  When  the  con- 
ductor came  for  the  fares,  Yvonne  opened  her 
purse  quickly ;  but  a  flush  came  over  hei 
companion's  pale  face  as  he  divined  her  inten- 
tion. "  You  must  let  me, '  he  said,  producing 
a  couple  of  pence  from  his  pocket. 

9 


Derelicts 

The  rattling  of  the  vehicle  prevented  serious 
conversation.  The  talk  drifted  naturally  into 
the  desultory  commonplace.  Madame  Latour 
explained  that  she  had  been  giving  the  last 
singing  lesson  of  the  season  at  a  house  on 
the  other  side  of  Holland  Park,  that  her  pupil 
had  neither  ear  nor  voice,  and  that  by  the  time 
she  had  learned  the  accompaniment  to  a  song  it 
had  already  grown  out  of  date.  "  People  are 
so  stupid,  you  know.'* 

She  said  it  with  such  an  air  of  conviction,  as 
if  she  had  discovered  a  brand-new  truth,  that 
the  man  smiled.  She  noted  it  with  her  quick, 
feminine  glance,  and  felt  gladdened.  It  was  so 
much  better  to  laugh  than  to  cry.  She  was 
encouraged  to  chatter  lightly  upon  passing 
glimpses  of  people  in  the  street,  of  amusing 
incidents  in  her  profession  as  a  concert  singer. 
When  the  'bus  stopped,  she  jumped  out,  dis- 
regarding his  gravely  offered  hand,  and  laughed, 
her  face  glowing  with  animation. 

"  Oh,  how  nice  it  is  to  be  with  you  again  ! " 
she  said,  as  they  crossed  to  the  entrance  gate  of 
Kensington  Gardens.  "  Say  that  you  are  glad 
you  met  me ! 

"It  is  like  a  drop  of  water  on  the  tongue  of 
the  damned,**  he  said  in  a  low  voice  —  too  low, 

lO 


Beyond   the   Pale 

however,  for  her  to  hear,  for  she  continued  to 
look  up  at  him,  all  smiles  and  sweetness. 

She  seemed  a  thing  of  warmth  and  sunshine, 
too  impalpable  for  the  rough  uses  of  the  world. 
One  would  have  said  she  was  the  embodied 
spirit  of  the  warm  south  of  Keats's  ode.  Her 
dark  hair,  massed  in  a  hundred  little  waves  over 
her  forehead  and  temples,  gave  an  indescribable 
softness  to  her  face.  A  faint  tinge  of  rose 
shone  through  her  dark  skin.  Her  great  brown 
eyes  contained  immeasurable  depths  of  tender- 
ness. A  subtly-mingled,  all-pervading  sense  of 
summer  and  the  exquisitely  feminine  enveloped 
her  from  the  beautiful  hair  to  her  tiny  feet. 
She  was  in  the  sweetest  bloom  of  her  woman- 
hood and  she  had  all  the  unconscious,  half- 
pathetic  charm  of  a  child.  In  a  crowded 
ball-room,  amidst  dazzling  dresses  and  flashing 
arms  and  necks  and  under  the  electric  light, 
Yvonne's  beauty  might  have  passed  unnoticed. 
But  there,  in  the  shady  walk  upon  which  they 
had  just  entered,  in  that  quiet  world  of  cool 
greens  and  shadowed  yellows,  she  appeared  to 
the  man's  weary  eyes  the  most  beautiful  thing 
on  the  earth. 

"  How  sweet  it  is  here,"  she  said,  as  they  sat 
down  upon  a  bench. 

U 


Derelicts 

"  incomprehensibly  sweet,"  he  replied. 

His  tone  touched  her.  She  laid  her  tiny 
gloved  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  I  wish  I  could  help  you  —  Mr.  Chisely," 
she  said  gently, 

"  That  is  no  longer  my  name/'  he  said. 
"  And  so  you  must  n't  call  me  by  it.  I  have 
given  it  up  since  —  since  I  came  out.  Would 
you  care  to  hear  about  me.f*  It  would  help  me 
to  speak  a  little.** 

"That's  why  I  brought  you  here/*  said 
Yvonne. 

He  bent  forward,  elbows  on  knees,  covering 
his  face  in  his  hands. 

"  I  don't  know,  after  all,  that  there  *s  much 
to  say.  My  poor  mother  died  while  I  was 
in  prison  —  you  know  that ;  I  suppose  I  broke 
her  heart.  Her  money  was  sunk  in  an  an- 
nuity. The  furniture  and  things  were  sold 
to  pay  outstanding  debts  of  mine.  I  came  out 
five  months  ago,  penniless.  Everard's  bankers 
communicated  with  me.  As  the  head  of  the 
family  he  had  collected  a  lump  sum  of  money, 
which  was  given  to  me  on  condition  that  I 
should  change  my  name  and  never  let  any 
of  the  family  hear  of  my  existence  again.  My 
mother's  people  refused  to  have  anything  to 

12 


Beyond   the   Pale 

do  with  me.  God  knows  why  I  was  sitting 
outside  their  house  to-day.  Perhaps  you  think 
I  ought  n't  to  have  accepted  Everard's  gift.  A 
man   has  n't   much   pride  left  after  two  years' 

hard  labour I  took  the  name  of  Joyce. 

I  saw  it  on  a  tradesman's  cart  as  I  reached  the 
street  after  the  interview.  One  name  is  as 
good  as  another." 

"  But  you  are  still  Stephen  ?  "  said  Yvonne. 

"  I   suppose  so.     I    have  hardly  thought  of 

it.     Yes,  I  suppose  I  keep  the  Stephen 

I  am  husbanding  this  money.  I  have  only 
that  between  me  and  starvation,  if  anything 
happened,  you  know.  What  1  have  passed 
through  is  not  the  best  thing  for  one's  health. 
Meanwhile,  I  am  trying  to  get  work.  It  is  a 
bit  hopeless.  I  know  I  ought  to  go  out  of 
England,  but  London  is  in  my  blood  somehow. 
I  am  loth  to  leave  it.  Besides,  what  should  I . 
do  in  the  colonies  ?  I  am  not  fit  for  hard 
manual  labour.  They  tried  it  in  there,  and  I 
broke  down ;  I  made  sacks  and  helped  in  the 
kitchen  most  of  my  time.  If  I  could  earn  a 
pound  a  week  in  London,  I  should  n't  care.  It 
would  keep  body  and  soul  together.  Why 
I  should  want  to  keep  them  together  I  don't 
know.     I  suppose  my  spirit  is  broken,  and  I 

13 


Derelicts 

am  too  apathetic  to  commit  suicide.  If  I  had 
the  spirit  of  a  louse  I  should  do  so.  But  I 
have  n't." 

He  stopped  speaking  and  remained  with  his 
head  bowed  in  his  hands.  Yvonne  could  find 
no  words  to  reply.  His  almost  brutal  terse- 
ness had  given  her  a  momentary  perception  of 
his  self-abasement  which  surprised  and  fright- 
ened her.  Generous  and  tender-hearted  as  she 
was,  she  had  ever  found  men  insoluble  enigmas. 
They  knew  so  much,  had  so  many  strange 
wants,  seemed  to  exist  in  a  world  of  ideas,  feel- 
ings, and  actions  beyond  her  ken.  Here  was 
one  with  nameless  experiences  and  shames.  She 
shrank  a  few  inches  along  the  seat,  not  from 
repulsion,  but  from  a  sudden  sense  of  her  own 
incapacity  of  comprehension.  She  felt  tongue- 
tied  and  helpless.  So  there  was  a  short 
silence. 

Joyce  noticed  the  lack  of  spontaneous  sym- 
pathy, and,  raising  a  haggard  face,  said  :  — 

"  I  have  shocked  you." 

"  You  talk  so  strangely,"  said  Yvonne  — 
"  as  if  you  had  a  stone  instead  of  a  heart." 

"  Forgive  me,"  he  said,  softening  at  the  sight 
of  her  distress.  "  I  am  ungrateful  to  you.  i 
ought  to  be  happy  to-day.     I  will  be  happy.    I 

14 


Beyond  the   Pale 

should  like  to  bend  down  and  kiss  your  feet  for 
sitting  here  with  me." 

The  change  in  his  tone  brought  the  colour 
back  into  Yvonne's  face  and  the  sun  into  her 
eyes.     She  was  a  creature  of  quick  impulses. 

"  Have  1  really  made  you  happy  ?  I  am  so 
glad.  I  seem  to  be  always  trying  to  make 
people  happy  and  never  succeeding." 

"  They  must  be  strange  people  you  have 
dealt  with,"  said  Joyce  with  a  weary  smile. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  expressively. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  that  other  people  are  so 
strange  and  I  am  so  ordinary." 

"  You  are  the  kindest,  sunniest  soul  on 
earth,"  said  Joyce.     "  You  always  were." 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  say  so  ?  "  she  cried,  shak- 
ing her  head.  She  was  all  brightness  again. 
"  I  am  such  an  insignificant  little  person. 
Everything  about  me  seems  so  small.  I  have 
a  small  body,  a  small  voice,  a  small  sphere,  a 
small  mind,  and  oh  !  I  live  in  such  a  small,  tiny 
flat.  You  must  come  and  see  me.  I  will  sing 
to  you  —  that  is  my  one  small  talent  —  and 
perhaps  that  will  cheei  you.  You  must  be 
so  lonely !  " 

"  Why  are  you  so  good  to  me  ? "  Joyce 
asked. 

IS 


Derelicts 

"  Because  you  look,  wretched  and  ill  and 
miserable,"  she  said  impulsiv^ely,  "  and  1  can  t 
bear  it.  You  were  good  to  me  once.  Do  you 
remember  how  kindly  you  settled  everything 
for  r»e  after  Amedee  left  me  ?  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done  without  you.  And 
then,  your  mother.  Ah,  I  know,"  she  continued, 
lowering  her  voice  a  little,  "  I  know,  and  I 
cried  for  you.  I  saw  her  just  before  the  end 
came  and  she  spoke  of  you.  She  said  *  Yvonne, 
if  ever  you  meet  Stephen,  give  him  a  kind  word 
for  my  sake.  He  will  have  the  whole  world 
against  him.'  And  I  promised  —  but  I  should 
have  done  just  the  same  if  I  had  n't  promised. 
There  is  n't  any  goodness  in  it." 

He  pressed  her  hand  dumbly.  Her  eyes 
swam  with  starting  tearS;,  but  his  were  dry. 
Sometimes  when  he  thought  of  the  devastation 
his  crime  had  wrought,  he  would  fall  on  his 
knees  and  bury  his  face,  and  long  that  he  could 
ease  his  heart  in  a  storm  of  weeping.  But  it 
seemed  too  dead  for  passionate  outburst.  Yet 
he  had  never  felt  so  near  to  emotion  as  at  that 
moment. 

They  talked  for  a  short  while  longer,  of  old 
days  and  home  memories,  bitter-sweet  to  the 
young  man,  and  of  his  present  position,  whose 

i6 


Beyond   the   Pale 

hopelessness  Yvonne  refused  to  allow.  She 
was  anxious  to  effect  a  reconciliation  between 
him  and  his  family.  His  mother's  relations 
who  lived  in  Holland  Park  she  did  not  know. 
But  his  cousin,  Everard  Chisely,  Canon  of 
Winchester,  might  be  brought  to  more  Christian 
sentiments  of  forgiveness.  She  would  plead 
with  the  Canon  the  first  time  that  she  met  him. 
But  Joyce  shook  his  head.  No.  He  was  the 
black  sheep.  Everard  had  behaved  generously. 
He  must  go  his  own  way.  No  modern  Chris- 
tianity could  make  a  man  forget  the  disgrace 
that  had  been  brought  upon  his  name  by  felony. 
Besides,  Everard  never  went  back  upon  his 
word.  Like  Pilate,  what  he  had  written,  he 
had  written,  and  there  was  an  end  of  the 
matter. 

"  But  how  do  you  come  to  know  Everard  ? " 
asked  Joyce,  wishing  to  turn  the  conversation. 

"  I  met  him  several  times  at  your  mother's," 
replied  Yvonne.  "  He  used  to  be  so  kind  to 
her.  And  there  he  heard  me  sing —  and  some- 
how we  have  become  immense  friends.  He 
comes  to  see  me,  and  I  sing  to  him.  Dina 
Vicary  says  he  comes  up  to  town  on  purpose. 
Did  you  -ever  hear  such  a  thing  ?  But  I  can't 
tell  you  how  respectable  it  makes  me  feel  —  so 
2  17 


Derelicts 

impressive  you  know  —  a  real  live  dignitary. 
Once  he  came  when  Elsie  Carnegie  and  Van- 
deleur  were  there  showing  me  her  new  song 
and  dance.  You  should  have  seen  their  faces 
when  he  came  in.  Van,  who  sings  in  the 
choir  of  a  West  End  church,  began  to  talk 
hymns  for  all  he  was  worth,  while  Elsie  flicked 
her  lighted  cigarette  into  a  flower-pot.  It  was 
so  funny." 

Yvonne  broke  into  a  contagious  ripple  of 
laughter.  Then,  remembering  the  flight  of 
time,  she  looked  at  her  watch  and  rose  quicklv 
from  the  seat. 

"  I  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late !  I  am  going 
out  to  lunch.  Now  you  will  come  and  see  me, 
tvon't  you  ?  Come  to-morrow  evening.  I  live 
at  40  Aberdare  Mansions,  Marylebone  Road. 
By  the  way,  do  you  still  sing  ?  " 

"  I  had  forgotten  there  was  such  a  thing  as 
song  in  the  world,"  said  Joyce  sadly. 

"  Well,  you  '11  remember  it  to-morrow  even- 
ing," said  Yvonne.  "  I  have  an  idea.  Au 
revoir,  then." 

"  God  bless  you,"  said  Joyce,  shaking  hands 
with  her. 

She  nodded  brightly,  and  tripped  away  up 
the   path.     Joyce    watched    her   dainty    figure 

18 


Beyond   the   Pale 

until  it  was  out  of  sight,  and  then  he  wandered 
aimlessly  through  the  Park,  thinking  of  the 
past  hour.  And,  for  a  short  while,  some  of  the 
contamination  of  the  gaol  seemed  to  be  wiped 
away. 


19 


CHAPTER   II 


YVONNE 


That  evening  Yvonne  was  standing  by  the 
door  of  a  concert-hall,  as  her  friend  and  fellow- 
artist  Vandeleur  adjusted  a  red  wrap  round  her 
shoulders.  He  was  a  burly,  pudding-faced 
Irishman  with  twinkling  dark  blue  eyes  and  a 
persuasive  manner.  His  fingers  lingered  about 
the  wrap  longer  than  was  necessary. 

"  Good-bye,"  s^id  Yvonne,  "  and  thank  you." 
She  was  feeling  a  little  upset.  Vandeleur,  a 
popular  favourite,  had  preceded  her  on  the 
programme,  and  his  song  had  been  met  with 
rapturous  applause. 

"  You  have  *  queered  *  me.  Van,"  she  had 
said,  in  pure  jest. 

Whereupon,  he  had  returned  to  the  platform 
to  give  his  enthusiastically  demanded  encore, 
and,  to  the  disappointment  of  the  audience, 
had  sung  the  most  villainous  drawing-room 
ballad  he  could  think  of,  without  an  attempt 

20 


Yvonne 

at  expression.  The  applause  had  been  per- 
functory, and  Yvonne's  appearance  had  created 
a  quickening  of  interest.  Vandeleur's  unnec- 
essary quixotism  put  Yvonne  into  a  false 
position.     So  she  thanked  him  shyly. 

"  Let  me  just  have  ten  minutes  of  a  cigarette 
at  home  with  you,"  he  pleaded. 

Yvonne  was  tired.  It  was  very  hot ;  she  had 
been  running  hither  and  thither  about  London 
since  the  morning,  and  was  longing  in  a  femin- 
ine way  to  free  herself  of  hampering  garments, 
ind  to  lie  down  with  a  French  novel  for  an 
hour  before  going  to  bed.  But  when  a  man 
spoke  to  her  with  that  note  of  entreaty  in  his 
voice  she  did  not  know  how  to  refuse.  She 
nodded  assent.  Vandeleur  called  a  cab  and 
they  drove  together  to  her  flat. 

It  was  up  many  flights  of  stairs  —  the  pas- 
sage was  very  narrow,  the  drawing-room  very 
tiny.  The  big  Irishman  standing  on  the 
hearthrug  seemed  to  fill  all  the  space  left  by 
the  grand  piano.  How  this  article  of  furniture 
was  ever  brought  into  the  flat  puzzled  Yvonne's 
friends  as  much  as  the  entrance  of  the  apples 
into  the  dumplings  puzzled  George  III., 
until  some  one  suggested  the  same  solution 
of  the  problem  —  the  flat  had  been  built  roaav 

21 


Derelicts 

the  piano.  Everything  else  in  the  room  was 
small,  like  Yvonne  herself,  the  armchairs,  the 
couch,  the  three  occasional  tables.  A  few 
water-colours  hung  around  the  walls.  The 
curtains  and  draperies  were  fresh  and  tasteful. 
All  the  room,  with  its  dainty  furniture  and 
pretty  feminine  knick-knacks,  was  impressed 
with  Yvonne's  graceful  individuality  —  all  ex- 
cept the  immense  grand  piano,  which  asserted 
itself  loudly,  a  polished  rosewood  solecism.  It 
seemed  such  a  very  big  instrument  for  so  small 
a  person  as  Yvonne. 

She  threw  herself  into  an  armchair  by  the 
fire,  with  a  little  sigh.  She  had  been  unusually 
quiet  during  the  drive  home. 

"  And  what 's  making  you  miserable  ?  ** 
asked  Vandeleur,  in  a  tone  of  concern. 

"  I  wish  you  had  n't  done  that.  Van,"  she  said, 
with  a  wistful  puckering  of  her  forehead. 

**Ah,  there!  now  you're  vexed  with  me. 
There  never  was  an  animal  like  me  for  tread- 
ing on  my  dearest  friends.  I  'm  like  the 
elephant  you  may  have  heard  of,  that  squashed 
the  mother  of  a  brood  of  chickens  by  mistake, 
and,  taking  it  to  heart,  just  like  me,  gathered 
the  little  ones  under  his  wing,  and,  sitting 
down   upon  them,  said :    '  Ah,   be  aisy   now, 

22 


Yvonne 

I  *11  be  a  mother  to  you ' ;  he  did  n't  hurt  the 
chickens'  feelings  exactly  —  but  it  was  mistaken 
kindness.  Was  it  your  feelings  I  trampled  on  ?  " 

"Ah,  no.  Van,"  said  Yvonne,  smiling.  "  But 
don't  you  see,  it  was  doing  a  thing  I  can  never 
pay  you  back  for." 

"  Faith,  the  sight  of  your  sweet  face  is 
payment  enough." 

"  But  you  can  have  that  for  nothing  —  such 
as  it  is." 

"  It's  the  sweetest  face  that  ever  was  made," 
said  the  Irishman,  flinging  a  freshl /-lighted 
cigarette  into  the  grate  behind  him.  "  I  'd 
cut  off  my  head  any  day  to  get  a  sight  of  it 
But  are  you  wanting  to  pay  me  more  than 
that  ?  By  my  soul,  there 's  just  an  easy  way 
out  of  your  difficulty,  Yvonne  ! " 

He  looked  down  at  her,  his  face  very  red, 
and  questioning  in  his  eyes.  She  caught  his 
glance  and  sat  upright,  stretching  out  her  hand 
appealingly.  Men  had  looked  at  her  like  that 
before,  —  craving  for  something  she  had  not  in 
her  to  give.  She  had  always,  on  such  occa- 
sions, felt  what  a  shallow,  poverty-stricken 
little  soul  she  was.  What  was  in  her  that 
could  bring  the  trouble  into  men's  eyes  ? 
Here   was   Van,   the    kind   friend    and   good 

23 


Derelicts 

comrade,  going  the  way  of  the  others.  She 
was  frightened  and  distressed. 

"  Oh,  Van,  don't !  "  she  cried.  «  Not  that. 
I  can't  bear  it !  " 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  as  he 
came  quickly  forward  and  leaned  over  her  chair. 

"Just  a  tiny  bit  of  love,  Yvonne.  So  small 
that  you  would  n't  miss  it.  I  could  do  with  it 
all,  but  I  know  I  can't  get  that.  I  only  ask 
for  a  sample.     Come,  Yvonne." 

But  Yvonne  shook  her  head. 

"  Don't,  Van,"  she  repeated,  piteously ; 
"  you  're  hurting  me." 

.  Her  tone  was  so  pathetic  that  the  big  man 
drew  himself  up,  thumped  his  chest,  and  seized 
his  hat.  "  I  'm  a  great  big  brute  to  come  and 
take  advantage  of  you  like  this.  Of  course 
you  could  n't  care  about  a  great  fat  bounder 
like  me.  And  you  're  half  dropping  with 
weariness.  It's  a  villain  I  am.  I'll  leave 
you  to  your  sleep,  poor  little  woman.  Good 
night." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  she  allowed  hers 
to  remain  in  it  for  a  moment. 

"  I  have  n't  been  ungrateful  to  you,  have 
I  ? "  she  asked.  "  I  did  n't  mean  to  be.  But  I 
thought  you  were  different." 

24 


Yvonne 

«  How,  different  ? " 

"  That  you  would  never  make  love  to  me. 
Don't,  Van,  please.     It  would  spoil  it  all." 

"  Well,  perhaps  it  would,"  replied  Vandeleur, 
philosophically.  "  Only  it  is  so  devilish  hard 
not  to  make  love  to  you  when  one 's  got  the 
chance.  And,  begad  !  if  you  'd  just  give  up 
looking  like  a  little  warm,  brown  saint,  it 
would  be  better  for  the  peace  of  mind  of  the 
men." 

He  stooped  and  touched  her  hand  with  his 
lips  and  strode  buoyantly  out  of  the  room. 
She  heard  him  humming  one  of  his  songs 
along  the  passage,  then  the  slam  of  the  front 
door;  then  there  was  silence,  and  Yvonne 
went  to  bed  with  a  grateful  sense  of  escape 
from  unknown  dangers.  Still,  she  was  sorry 
for  Vandeleur,  although  she  had  a  dim  per- 
ception of  the  superficiality  of  his  passion.  It 
would  have  been  nice,  had  it  been  possible,  to 
make  him  happy.  She  had  a  queer,  unreason- 
able little  feeling  that  she  had  been  selfish. 
She  sighed  as  she  settled  herself  to  sleep.  The 
ways  of  the  world  were  very  complicated. 

To  those  who  knew  her  it  was  often  a  sub- 
ject for  marvel  that  she  was  not  crushed  in  the 
^erce  struggle  of  life.     A  creature  so  yielding, 

2S 


Derelict? 

so  simple,  so  unaffected  by  experience  or  the 
obvious  external  lessons  of  the  world,  and  yet 
standing  serenely  in  the  midst  of  the  turmoil, 
seemed  an  incongruity — gave  a  sense  of  shock, 
a  prompting  to  rescue,  such  as  would  arise 
from  the  sight  of  a  child  in  the  middle  of  a 
roadway  clashing  with  traffic.  She  was  made 
for  protection,  tenderness,  all  the  sheltering 
luxuries  and  amenities  of  life.  It  was  a  flaw 
in  the  eternal  fitness  of  things  that  she  was 
alone,  earning  her  livelihood,  with  nothing 
but  her  sweetness  and  innocence  to  guard  her 
from  buffeting  and  downfall. 

Yet  it  was  her  very  simplicity  that  saved  her 
from  outward  strain ;  and  inward  stress  was  as 
yet  spared  her,  through  her  unawakened  child- 
nature.  She  laughed  when  folks  pitied  her. 
To  earn  her  living  was  an  easy  matter.  Born 
in  the  profession,  trained  for  it  from  her  earliest 
days,  she  had  taken  to  it  as  a  young  swan  to 
the  water.  Engagements  came  like  the  winds, 
the  visits  of  her  friends,  and  other  such  natural 
and  commonplace  phenomena.  She  sang,  or 
gave  her  lessons,  and  the  money  was  paid 
m  to  the  branch  of  the  City  Bank  close  by 
her  flat,  and  when  she  needed  funds  for  her 
modest  expenses  she  wrote  a  cheque  and  sent 

26 


Yvonne 

ner  maid  to  cash  it.  When  her  balance  was 
getting  low,  she  practised  little  economies  and 
postponed  payment  of  bills ;  when  it  was  high, 
she  settled  her  debts,  bought  new  clothes,  and 
had  a  dozen  oysters  now  and  then  for  supper. 
It  was  very  simple.  She  did  not  pity  herself 
at  all.  Nor  did  she  feel  the  trouble  of  her  past 
married  life.  It  had  gone  by  like  a  cloudy 
day,  forgotten  in  succeeding  sunshine,  and  had 
left  singularly  little  trace  upon  her  character. 
Even  the  period  of  unhappiness  had  not 
weighed  unduly.  A  more  resistful  nature 
might  have  been  wrecked  irretrievably ;  but 
Yvonne  had  been  cast  upon  the  shoals  only 
for  a  season. 

When  Amedee  Bazouge,  a  Parisian  tenor 
who  had  settled  in  London,  first  met  her,  he 
was  surfeited  with  various  blonde  beauties  of  the 
baser  sort,  and  in  a  sentimental  mood,  during 
which  he  frequently  invoked  the  memory  of 
his  mother,  he  chose  to  fall  desperately  in  love 
with  little  brown  Yvonne,  likening  her  to  thi 
Blessed  Virgin  and  as  many  saints  as  he  recol 
lected.  Yvonne  was  very  young ;  this  sudden 
worship  was  new  to  her ;  the  pain  in  his  heart 
that  he  so  passionately  dwelt  upon  seemed  a  ter- 
rible thing  for  her  to  have  caused.    She  married 


Derelicts 

him  because  he  said  that  his  Hfe  was  at  stake. 
She  gave  him  herself  as  she  would  have  given 
sixpence  to  a  poor  man  in  the  street.  Why  she 
was  necessary  to  his  Hfe's  happiness  she  could 
not  guess.  However,  Amedee  said  so,  and  she 
took  it  on  faith. 

For  a  while  she  was  mildly  content  in  his 
exuberant  delight.  He  whispered,  in  soft  honey- 
moon hours,  "  niaimes-tu  ?  "  —  and  she  said 
"  Yes,"  because  she  knew  it  would  please  him ; 
but  she  was  always  happier  at  other  times,  when 
she  was  not  called  upon  for  display  or  expres- 
sion of  feeling.  She  liked  him  well  enough. 
His  somewhat  common  handsomeness  pleased 
her,  his  effervescent  fancy  and  boulevard  wit 
kept  her  lightly  amused,  and  his  vehement 
passion  provided  her  with  an  interest  strangely 
compounded  of  fright,  wonder,  and  pity. 

But  Amedee  Bazouge  was  not  made  either 
by  nature  or  education  for  the  domestic  virtues. 
His  repentant  mood  passed  ^way  ;  he  forgot 
the  memory  of  his  mother,  and  found  Yvonne's 
innocence  grow  insipid.  He  hankered  aftei 
the  strange  goddesses  with  their  full-flavoured 
personalities,  their  cynicism,  their  passions,  and 
their  stimulating  variety.  Regret  came  to  him 
for  having  broken  with  the   last,  who  alwa/e 

28 


Yvonne 

kept  him  in  a  state  of  delicious  uncertainty 
whether  she  would  overwhelm  him  with  pas- 
sionate kisses  or  break  the  looking-glass  in  a 
tempest  of  wrath.  So,  gradually,  he  sought 
satisfaction  for  his  reactionary  yearnings  and 
drifted  away  from  Yvonne.  And  then  she 
grew  unhappy.  He  did  not  treat  her  unkindly. 
In  all  their  dealings  with  each  other  a  harsh 
word  never  passed  the  lips  of  either.  But  she 
felt  cold  and  neglected.  Instead  of  being  met 
after  a  concert  and  accompanied  to  their  little 
house  at  Staines,  she  went  the  long  journey 
done.  The  quiet  evenings  of  music  and  sing- 
ing together  were  hings  of  the  past.  Often  a 
week  elapsed  without  their  meeting.  To  com- 
plete her  trouble,  her  mother  died  suddenly, 
and  Yvonne  felt  very  lonely.  She  would  sit 
sometimes  and  cry  like  a  lost  child. 

At  last  they  parted.  Amedee  returned  to 
Paris,  and  Yvonne  took  her  little  flat  in  the 
Marylebone  Road.  The  clouds  passed  by  and 
Yvonne  was  happy  again.  She  had  retained 
professionally  her  maiden  name  of  Latour,  and 
now  she  assumed  it  altogether,  only  changing 
the  former  "  Mademoiselle  "  into  "  Madame." 
Her  husband  faded  into  a  vague  memory. 
When  she  received  news  of  him  it  was  through  a 

29 


Derelicts 

paragraph  in  the  "  Figaro,"  announcing  his 
death  in  a  Paris  hospital.  She  wore  a  little 
crape  bonnet  to  notify  to  the  world  the  fact  of 
her  widowhood,  but  she  had  no  tears  to  shed. 
When  friends  condoled  with  her  over  her  sad 
lot,  she  opened  her  round  eyes  in  astonishment. 

"  But,  my  dear,  I  am  as  happy  as  I  can 
possibly  be,"  she  would  say  in  remonstrance. 
And  it  was  true.  She  had  come  through  the 
ordeal  of  an  unhappy  marriage,  pure  and  child- 
like, her  heart  unruffled  by  passion  and  her  soul 
unclouded  by  disillusion. 

There  are  some  women  born  to  be  loved  by 
many  men,  yielding,  trustful,  appealing  irre- 
sistibly to  the  masculine  instincts  of  protection 
and  possession.  Sometimes  they  are  carried  off 
by  one  successful  owner  and  bear  him  children, 
and  hear  nothing  of  the  hopeless  loves  that  they 
inspire.  Sometimes,  like  Yvonne,  they  are  at 
the  mercy  of  every  gust  of  passion  that  stirs 
the  hearts  of  the  men  around  them.  They  are 
too  innocent  of  the  meaning  and  scope  of  love 
to  bide  the  time  when  love  shall  take  them  in 
its  grip ;  too  weak,  tender,  and  compassionate 
to  harden  their  hearts  against  the  sufferings  of 
men.  If  they  faU,  the  world  is  unsparing  in 
condemnation.     If    happy    circumstance    shel- 

30 


Yvonne 

ters  them,  they  are  canonised  for  virtues  that 
stop  short  of  their  logical  conclusion.  Where- 
fore we  are  tempted  to  say  hard  things  of  the 
world. 

Fate,  however,  had  dealt  not  unkindly  with 
Yvonne.  At  times  her  path  had  been  sadly 
tangled  and  she  had  sighed,  as  she  did  this 
night  after  Vandeleur's  unexpected  declara- 
tion. But  chance  had  always  come  to  her  aid 
and  cleared  her  way.  She  trusted  to  it  now  as 
she  fell  asleep. 


31 


CHAPTER   III 

IN    THE    DEPTHS 

"If  you  step  this  way,  the  manager  will  see 
you,"  said  the  clerk,  lifting  the  flap  of  the 
counter. 

Joyce  rose  from  the  cane-bottomed  chair 
on  which  he  had  been  sitting,  and  followed  the 
clerk  through  the  busy  outer  office  into  the 
private  room  beyond.  An  elderly  man  in 
gold  spectacles  looked  up  from  his  desk. 

"  What  can  I  do  for  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  seeking  employment,"  said  Joyce, 
"  can  you  give  me  any  ?  " 

"  Employment  ? " 

If  Joyce  had  asked  him  for  Prester  John's 
cap,  or  the  Cham  of  Tartary's  beard,  his  tone 
could  not  have  expressed  more  surprise. 

"  Yes,"  replied  Joyce.  "  I  don't  mind  what 
It  is  —  clerk,  copyist,  handy-man,  messenger  — 
so  long  as  it 's  work." 

"  Utterly  impossible,"  sdd  the  manager, 
shortly. 

32 


In   the   Depths 

"  Would  it  be  of  any  use  to  leave  my  ad- 
dress ?  '*  asked  Joyce. 

"  Not  a  bit.  Good  day  to  you." 
Joyce  walked  out  apathetically  on  to  the 
landing.  It  was  a  nest  of  city  offices  in  a  great 
block  of  buildings  in  Fenchurch  Street,  a 
labyrinth  of  staircases,  passages,  and  ground- 
glass  doors  black-lettered  with  the  names  of 
firms.  He  was  going  through  them  systemati- 
cally. Often  he  could  not  gain  access  to  a 
person  in  authority.  When  he  succeeded,  it 
was  the  same  history  of  rebuff.  He  felt  some- 
what downcast  at  the  result  of  this  last  inter- 
view, the  cheerful  alacrity  with  which  he  had 
been  received  having  given  him  an  unreason- 
able hope.  He  paused  for  a  few  moments 
deciding  upon  what  door  to  try  next.  Some 
names  looked  encouraging,  others  forbidding  — 
a  futile  superstition,  yet  one  not  without  in- 
fluence upon  his  unfed  mind.  Why  "  Griffith  & 
Swan  "  should  have  attracted  and  "  Willoughby 
Bros."  repelled  him  is  a  psychological  problem 
that  must  forever  remain  insoluble.  It  is  none 
the  less  a  fact  that  he  bent  his  steps  along  the 
passage  to  the  door  of  the  first-mentioned  firm. 
But  there  he  was  repulsed  at  the  outset.  The 
chiefs  were  engaged.  Had  he  an  appointment  ? 
3  33 


Derelicts 

What  was  his  business  ?  The  only  way  to  see 
the  chiefs  was  by  writing  to  fix  an  interview. 
Joyce  retired,  climbed  wearily  up  the  stone 
staircase  to  the  next  floor.  Everywhere  the 
same  monotonous  result. 

At  last  his  application  was  seriously  enter- 
tained. His  heart  beat  anxiously.  It  was  at  a 
firm  of  shipping  agents.  Two  clerics  had  gone 
on  their  holiday,  another  one  had  just  that  morn- 
ing fallen  ill.  They  were  short-handed.  The 
junior  partner,  a  brisk  young  fellow,  looked 
shrewdly  at  Joyce,  divining  his  education  and 
capacity. 

"  I  could  give  you  some  temporary  work, 
certainly.  Only  too  glad,  for  we  are  in  a  hole. 
But  of  course  we  must  have  some  references." 

"  I  am  afraid  I  can  give  you  none,"  replied 
Joyce.  "  I  have  had  a  good  education  and 
business  training,  and  I  could  do  your  work. 
But  I  'm  a  lonely  man  —  without  friends." 

"  What  have  you  been  doing  lately  for  a 
living." 

The  matter-of-fact  question  turned  his  heart 
sick.  He  had  known  that  he  would  have  to 
answer  it  before  he  could  enter  upon  any  em- 
ployment; but  he  had  always  shrunk  from 
formulating  a  plausible  reply,  weakly  trusting 

34 


In  the   Depths 

to  his  mother-wit  when  the  dreaded  moment 
should  come.  Now  his  mother-wit  deserted 
him.  He  could  think  of  nothing  but  the  past 
reality. 

"  I  would  rather  tell  you  nothing  about  my- 
self," he  said  lamely. 

The  young  partner  shrugged  his  shoulders 
good-humouredly. 

"  Well,  that 's  your  affair.  But  you  see  we 
can't  take  a  stranger  into  our  office  without 
his  giving  us  some  formal  voucher  for  his 
honesty." 

Joyce  looked  at  him  appealingly,  with  glisten- 
ing eyes,  a  new  Moses  on  Mount  Nebo.  Only 
then  did  he  fully  realise  the  utter  hopelessness 
of  his  position.  The  veriest  office-boy  needed 
a  certificate  of  character.     He  had  none. 

The  partner,  clean-shaven,  ruddy-cheeked, 
was  lounging  against  the  mantel-piece,  hands  in 
pockets,  a  whimsical  smile  playing  around  the 
corners  of  his  mouth.  His  speech,  though 
business-like,  was  kindly.  He  looked  a  gentle- 
man. Joyce  was  seized  with  a  mad,  despairing 
impulse.  He  flushed  to  the  roots  of  his  hair, 
clenched  his  hands  by  his  sides  and  advanced 
an  involuntary  step  towards  his  interlocutor. 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  truth,"  he  cried  breath- 
35 


Derelicts 

lessly.  "I  must  find  work  soon  or  I  shall 
starve.  Give  it  to  me  and  I  will  work  night 
and  day  for  you.  I  took  a  double  first  at 
Oxford.  I  practised  as  a  solicitor.  I  lived 
beyond  my  means  and  misappropriated  trust- 
money.  I  could  not  pay  it  back.  My  name 
was  struck  off  the  rolls  and  I  had  two  years* 
hard  labour.  I  have  been  looking  for  work 
every  day  for  five  months.  I  am  not  such  a 
fool  as  to  risk  that  hell  again.  For  God's  sake 
give  me  a  chance  and  set  me  on  my  feet  again." 

His  voice  rang  with  the  agony  of  entreaty. 
His  lips  quivered.  When  he  ceased  speaking 
he  was  shaking  from  head  to  foot. 

The  young  man  shifted  the  crossing  of  his 
feet  and  put  up  an  eyeglass  that  had  been 
d.angling  on  his  waistcoat. 

"Well,  you  have  pretty  damned  cheek,  I 
must  say !  "  he  remarked,  with  a  drawl. 

Joyce  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  stupidly, 
and  then  turned  away  without  a  word,  crushed 
and  humiliated  to  his  soul.  Round  and  round 
the  rectangular  well-staircase  he  went,  dizzy 
with  the  reaction.  He  could  knock  at  no  more 
doors.  The  names  seemed  to  swell  large  and 
to  jeer  at  him  as  he  passed.  A  burst  of  laughter 
from  two  men,  issuing  from  some  office  above, 

36 


In  the  Depths 

echoed  and  rattled  down  the  staircase  and  jarred 
upon  every  nerve  of  his  body.  He  quick- 
ened his  pace  to  a  run,  and  did  not  stop  until 
he  reached  the  sweltering  street.  White  and 
faint  he  leant  against  the  wall,  vaguely  conscious 
of  the  ceaselessly  hurrying  mass  that  passed 
him  by.  After  a  minute  or  two  he  recovered 
self-possession  enough  to  move  onwards  with 
the  westward  stream  on  the  pavement.  His 
quest  of  work  was  abandoned.  He  could  only 
feel  sickening  regret  for  having  given  way  to 
his  insane  impulse  and  shrink  from  the  echoing 
tones  of  the  other  man's  cynical  contempt. 
The  last  shred  of  his  self-respect  was  torn  away. 
He  seemed  to  be  the  naked  gaol-bird  before 
those  thousand  eyes  that  glanced  upon  him. 
The  idea  grew  into  morbid  exaggeration.  A 
man  or  woman  making  way  for  him  to  pass 
appeared  to  be  shrinking  from  the  soil  of  his 
touch.  Every  policeman  was  identifying  him. 
A  penny-toy  man  by  the  Mansion  House,  who 
had  taken  off  his  cap  and  was  scratching  a 
closely-cropped  head,  grinned  at  him  with  the 
familiarity  of  an  old  acquaintance. 

It  became  unbearable.  He  fled  into  a  pub- 
lic-house in  Cheapside  and  ordered  a  glass 
of  whisky.      The  spirit  ran  through  his  veins 

17 


Derelicts 

comfortingly.  He  drank  another,  and  went 
out  into  the  street.  Soon  the  spirit,  acting  on 
an  empty  stomach,  dulled  his  senses  and  pro- 
voked a  vague  suggestion  of  debauch  as  the 
only  consoler.  In  the  days  of  his  vanity  Joyce 
had  known  the  flush  of  wine  on  joyous  nights, 
but  drunkenness  had  always  been  hateful  to  him. 
Yet  now,  in  his  morbid  state,  the  temptation  was 
irresistible.  He  went  from  tavern  to  tavern 
with  dull,  stupid  recklessness,  cognisant  only  of 
the  motive  to  drink  and  of  his  own  mechanical 
personality.  At  last,  staggering  out  of  a  public- 
house  in  Fleet  Street,  he  tripped  at  the  thresh- 
old and  fell  insensible  on  the  pavement. 

When  he  recovered  consciousness  it  was 
quite  dark.  For  a  few  moments  he  did  not 
seek  to  discover  where  he  was.  But  a  chance 
movement  caused  him  nearly  to  fall  from  where 
he  lay,  and  he  started  to  a  sitting  posture.  His 
feet  touched  the  ground  sooner  than  he  ex- 
pected ;  the  slight  shock  completed  his  awaken- 
ing. Where  was  he  ?  He  stretched  out  his 
hand  and  felt  the  wall.  It  was  stone.  Stone, 
too,  was  the  floor,  as  he  found  by  stamping  his 
foot.  Then  the  truth  burst  upon  him  with 
indescribable  terror.  It  was  the  cell  of  a  police 
station.     Although  his  head  swam  and  his  eye- 

38 


In   the   Depths 

balls  ached,  the  fright  of  the  discovery  had 
thoroughly  sobered  him.  It  was  the  final 
calamity  and  degradation  of  the  day.  He  was 
in  prison  again.  He  would  again  have  to  put 
on  the  hateful  clothes  and  cower  beneath  the 
warder's  glance.  Once  more  he  would  have  to 
go  through  that  dreadful  ignominy.  Exagger- 
ating the  consequences  of  his  misdemeanour, 
he  conjured  up  all  the  horrors  of  his  previous 
term.  A  sense  of  utter  self-loathing  swelled 
within  him  like  a  nausea.  He  crouched  on 
the  narrow  bench,  holding  his  hair  in  a  feverish 
grasp.  The  gaol  had  got  him,  body  and  soul. 
It  was  all  that  he  was  fit  for. 

An  hour  passed.  Then  the  door  opened 
and  a  poHceman  appeared  in  the  light  of  the 
passage.     Joyce  looked  up  at  him  haggardly. 

"  Oh,  you  're  all  right  now,  are  you  ?  Better 
come  up  and  see  the  Inspector." 

Joyce  staggered  to  his  feet  and  clutched  the 
policeman's  supporting  arm. 

"  I  was  in  great  trouble,"  he  said  hoarsely. 
**  And  then  the  heat  —  an  empty  stomach  — 
a  few  glasses  knocked  me  over." 

"  Explain  that  upstairs,"  repUed  the  other. 
"  Bless  you,  it  '11  be  all  square." 

Brought  before  the  Inspector,  he  pulled  him- 
39 


Derelicts 

self  together  and  pleaded  his  cause  with  an 
intensity  that  amused  the  officials.  They  could 
see  nothing  tragic  in  a  "  drunk  and  incapable." 

"  Very  well,"  said  the  Inspector  at  last.  "  I 
see  it  was  an  accident.  Call  it  heat-apoplexy. 
I  sha'n't  charge  you.  You  had  better  get 
home  to  bed." 

Joyce  grew  faint  with  the  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing, and  steadied  himself  by  the  iron  railing. 
One  of  the  men  took  him  to  the  door,  hailed 
a  passing  cab  and  helped  him  in.  At  first,  ill 
and  dizzy  as  he  was,  he  felt  the  animal's  in- 
stinctive joy  in  suddenly  regained  liberty.  The 
non-fulfilment  of  his  agonising  forebodings 
filled  him  with  a  wondering  sense  of  relief. 
But  this  did  not  last  long.  Despair  and  self- 
abhorrence  resumed  their  hold  upon  him, 
causing  him  to  shiver  in  the  cab  as  with  an 
ague. 

He  crawled  upstairs  to  his  attic,  and  after 
having  procured  some  food,  of  which  he  ate  as 
much  as  he  could  swallow,  he  went  to  bed  and 
fell  into  a  heavy  sleep.  In  the  middle  of  the 
night  he  woke  with  a  start.  The  recollection 
of  his  engagement  with  Yvonne  Latour  had 
penetrated  through  the  sub-consciousness  of 
half-awakening.     He  uttered  a  cry  of  dismay. 

40 


In   the   Depths 

All  the  previous  evening  and  all  that  morning 
he  had  thought  of  the  promised  visit.  To  sit 
in  a  lady's  room,  to  live  for  a  moment  a  bit  of 
the  old  life,  to  forget  his  pariahdom  in  Yvonne's 
welcoming  smile,  to  have  the  comfort  of  her 
exquisite  pity  —  the  prospect  had  rendered  him 
almost  buoyant  during  the  early  part  of  his 
round.  But  the  pain  and  fever  of  after-events 
had  driven  her  from  his  mind.  Now,  in  his 
suffering  state,  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  lost  an 
offered  corner  of  Paradise,  rejected  the  one 
hand  that  was  stretched  out  to  save  him  from 
perdition.  He  lay  awake  many  hours.  At  last, 
toward  dawn,  he  fell  asleep  again  and  did  not 
wake  till  mid-day. 

He  rose,  rang  for  his  breakfast,  which  was 
brought  him,  as  usual,  on  a  tray,  by  the  slat- 
ternly maid-of-all-work.  He  was  still  feeling 
prostrated  in  mind  and  body.  Having  eaten 
what  he  could,  he  drew  up  the  blind  to  look  at 
the  day.  The  fine  weather  was  still  lasting. 
But  he  felt  no  desire  to  go  out.  What  was 
the  use  ?  Judging  by  the  lesson  of  yesterday 
it  would  be  futile  to  continue  his  search  for 
employment.  As  he  turned  away  from  the 
window,  he  caught  sight  of  his  white  haggard 
face  aad  bloodshot  eyes  in  the  mirror,  and  he 

41 


Derelicts 

shrank  back,  as  though  it  revealed  to  him  the 
miserable  weakness  of  his  soul.  Then  he 
threw  himself  half-dressed  upon  the  bed,  and 
there  he  remained,  abandoning  himself  to  the 
hopeless  inaction  of  defeat,  and  eating  his 
heart  out  in  remorse  for  the  shipwreck  he  had 
made  of  his  life. 

He  did  not  pose  before  himself  as  a  victim 
to  circumstance.  Could  he  have  done  so,  he 
might  have  found  some  poor  consolation.  His 
criminal  folly  lay  as  much  upon  his  soul  as  its 
punishment.  Again,  it  had  not  been  a  grand 
stroke  of  villainy  requiring  for  its  execution 
a  masterly  coolness  and  genius  for  which  he 
might  at  least  have  had  an  intellectual  admira- 
tion. But  it  had  been  of  the  same  petty  sort 
as  that  of  the  shop-boy  led  astray  by  low  turf 
associates,  who  pilfers  day  by  day  from  his 
master's  till,  hoping  the  luck  will  turn  and 
enable  him  to  replace  the  stolen  shillings.  The 
difference  had  been  merely  one  of  degree. 
His  operations  had  been  on  a  larger  scale,  his 
vices  more  fastidious,  his  circle  of  loose  friends 
more  aristocratic.  But  he  had  had  the  same 
contemptible  motives  for  his  crime,  and  the 
same  contemptible  excuses.  He  spared  him- 
self no  arrow  of  self-scorn. 

42 


In  the   Depths 

Latterly,  through  sheer  weariness,  he  had 
grown  apathetic,  taking  his  self-abasement  as 
one  of  the  conditions  of  life.  A  man  is  not 
physiologically  capable  of  continuous  outburst. 
But  now  the  iron  had  entered  deep  into  his 
soul,  causing  him  to  writhe  in  torment. 

What  would  be  the  end?  The  question 
haunted  him,  and  yet  it  seemed  scarcely  worth 
consideration.  There  was  no  employment  to 
be  obtained  by  such  as  he.  He  would  eke 
out  his  small  capital  as  far  as  possible,  and  when 
that  was  exhausted,  he  could  put  an  end  to  his 
worthless  life.  Or  would  his  cowardice  drag 
him  down  among  the  class  of  habitual  crimi- 
nals, lead  him  to  crime  as  a  means  of  liveli- 
hood ?  He  shuddered,  remembering  his  short 
spell  of  agony  in  the  cell  of  yesterday. 

The  hours  passed.  Towards  evening  he 
dressed  himself  and  went  out  to  a  dingy  Italian 
restaurant  near  Victoria  station,  where  he 
usually  dined.  On  coming  out  again  into  the 
street  he  hesitated  for  some  time  as  to  what  he 
should  do  next.  He  thought  of  Yvonne  with 
wistful  longing,  but  had  not  the  courage  to  go 
and  seek  her.  The  sense  of  degradation  was 
too  strong  upon  him.  He  shrank  with  morbid 
sensitiveness    from    taking    advantage    of   her 

43 


Derelicts 

guilelessness  by  bringing  his  contamination 
into  her  presence.  For,  paradoxical  as  it  may 
seem,  an  instinctive  pride  still  remained  in  the 
man.  Had  he  chosen  to  lay  it  aside,  doubtless 
more  than  one  of  his  former  friends  would  have 
consented  to  receive  him  on  some  sort  of  terms 
of  acquaintanceship.  But  he  had  sought  out 
none,  and  if  chance  brought  him  into  sight  of  a 
familiar  face  in  the  street,  he  effaced  himself  and 
hurried  on.  Yvonne  was  the  only  figure  out 
of  the  past  with  whom  he  had  communicated. 
And  now  he  had  cut  himself  adrift  from  her. 

After  a  few  undecided  turns  up  and  down 
the  pavement,  he  directed  his  steps  mechani- 
cally to  a  customary  haunt  of  his,  the  billiard- 
room  of  a  public-house  in  Westminster.  It 
was  better  than  the  wearying  streets  and  the 
choking  solitude  of  his  attic.  A  couple  of 
shabby  men  in  dingy  shirt-sleeves  were  playing 
at  the  table.  On  the  raised  divan,  in  the  gloom 
of  the  walls,  sat  a  silent  company  of  lookers-on. 
With  a  group  of  these,  Joyce  exchanged  nods, 
and  took  his  place  sombrely  among  them. 
They  were  a  depressed,  out-at-elbows  crew, 
who  came  here  night  after  night,  speaking 
little,  drinking  less,  and  never  playing  billiards 
at  all.     They  watched  the  game,  now  and  then 


In  the   Depths 

applauded,  oftener  condoled  with  the  loser  than 
congratulated  the  winner.  They  formed  an 
orderly  and  appreciative  gallery,  and  set,  as  it 
were,  a  tone  of  decorum  in  the  room ;  and  for 
this  reason  their  presence  was  not  discouraged 
by  the  landlord.  Eight  was  their  average  num- 
ber. They  were  mostly  men  in  the  prime  of 
life,  and  belonged,  as  far  as  one  could  judge  by 
their  voluntary  confidences,  to  the  obscure 
fringes  of  journalism,  the  stage,  and  independ- 
ence. Those  who  occupied  the  last  position 
lived  chiefly  on  their  wives.  There  was  a  de- 
cayed medical  student  who  did  Heaven  knows 
what  for  a  living,  and  a  red-headed,  vulgar 
man,  who  gave  out  that  he  had  thrown  up 
a  country  rectorship,  through  conscientious 
scruples.  Differing  widely  as  they  did  in  per- 
sonality, yet  they  retained  one  common  char- 
acteristic Failure  seemed  written  on  each 
man's  face.  A  kind  of  mutual  affinity  had 
drawn  them  together.  To  Joyce's  cynical 
humour  it  appeared  as  if  something  more  than 
mere  chance  had  caused  him  to  stumble  upon 
them  one  evening  two  months  before. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  have  left  my  'baccy  at  home,*' 
said  the  man  sitting  next  to  Joyce,  who  was 
filling  his  pipe.     "  Thank  you  very  much.     A 

4S 


Derelicts 

change  in  tobacco  is  very  gratifying  at  times  t<r 
the  palate." 

He  was  a  man  of  singular  appearance.  The 
bones  in  his  face  were  very  large,  the  flesh 
scanty ;  his  nose  hooked,  his  eyebrows  black 
and  meeting.  His  long  upper-lip  and  his  chin 
were  shaven ;  but  he  wore  thick  black  mutton- 
chop  whiskers  which  contrasted  oddly  with 
a  bush  of  whitening  hair  above  his  temples 
and  at  the  back  of  his  head.  Whether  he  was 
bald  or  not,  no  one  ever  knew,  as  he  always 
retained  his  hat  fixed  in  one  never-changing, 
respectable  angle.  This  hat  was  very,  very  old, 
an  extravagantly  curled  silk  hat  of  the  masher 
days  in  the  early  eighties.  But  the  most  strik- 
ing feature  of  his  costume  consisted  in  a  long 
thick  Chesterfield  overcoat  which  he  obviously 
wore  without  coat  or  waistcoat  beneath.  In 
the  sultry  August  weather  the  sight  of  him 
made  the  beholder  perspire.  Although  there 
was  no  trace  of  Hnen  at  his  wrists  or  down  the 
arms  as  far  as  one  could  see,  a  dirty  frayed  collar 
and  a  shirt-front  adorned  with  a  straight  black 
tie  appeared  above  the  tightly  buttoned  over- 
coat.   Joyce  knew  him  by  the  name  of  Noakes. 

He  looked  at  Joyce,  as  he  spoke,  out  or 
pale-blue,  unspeculative  eyes,  and  returned  the 

46 


In  the   Depths 

tobacco-pouch.  "  You  had  better  take  another 
fill  or  two,  while  you  are  about  it,"  said  Joyce. 

"  I  don't  like  to  trespass  upon  your  gener- 
osity," said  Noakes.  But  he  helped  himself 
plentifully,  tying  up  the  tobacco  in  his  pocket- 
handkerchief.  They  smoked  on  during  a  long 
silence,  broken  only  by  the  click  of  the  billiard- 
balls,  the  monotonous  cry  of  the  marker,  and 
occasional  murmurs  of  applause.  The  air  was 
heavy  with  drink  and  tobacco-smoke,  fresh  and 
stale. 

"  I  must  be  getting  back  to  work,"  said 
Noakes  at  last. 

The  word  roused  Joyce  from  the  lethargy 
into  which  he  had  fallen.  He  had  never 
associated  Noakes  with  definite  employment. 
For  a  moment  he  envied   him. 

"  I  wish  to  heaven  I  could,"  he  said. 

"  A  man  of  your  attainments,"  replied 
Noakes,  respectfully,  "  ought  never  to  be  at 
a  loss.  Now  I  should  say  you  have  been  to  a 
p'jMic  school  ? " 

Joyce  nodded. 

"  And  the  university  ? " 

Joyce  did  not  reply,  but  Noakes  went  on  : 
"  Yes ;  one  can  see  it.  Somehow  a  man  ot 
acute  observation  can  always  tell.     I  remember 

47 


Derelicts 

your  correcting  me  the  other  night  when  1 
spoke  of  Plato's  dramatic  unities.  I  looked 
up  the  matter  in  the  British  Museum,  and 
found  that  you  were  right  in  attributing  them 
to  Aristotle.  As  I  said  before,  a  man  of  your 
education  ought  to  have  no  difficulty." 

"  You  might  suggest  something,"  said  Joyce, 
with  a  shade  of  irony. 

"  Authorship." 

"  Are  you  an  author  ?  ** 

"With  all  due  modesty,  I  may  say  that  1 
am,"  returned  Noakes,  gravely.  "  I  don't 
find  it  very  remunerative,  but  I  attribute  that 
solely  to  the  deficiencies  in  my  education." 

"  What  do  you  write  ?  "  asked  Joyce,  inter- 
ested in  spite  of  himself  in  this  odd,  pathetic 
figure. 

"  I  have  adopted  two  branches  of  the  pro- 
fession —  one,  the  literary  advertisement ;  the 
other,  popular  fiction." 

He  drew  a  halfpenny  evening  paper  from 
his  pocket,  and,  designating  a  half-column 
with  his  thumb,  handed  it  to  Joyce.  It  was 
headlined  "  Nihilism  in  Russia,"  opened  with 
an  account  of  Siberian  horrors,  and  ended,  or 
course,  with  somebody's  pills. 

"  I  always  pride  myself  upon  there  being 
48 


In  the   Depths 

niore  literary  quality  in  my  work  than  is 
usually  given  to  that  class  of  thing,"  he  re- 
marked complacently,  while  Joyce  idly  ran 
through  the  column.  "  And  in  my  fiction 
I  always  try  to  keep  the  best  models  before 
me,  Stevenson  and  Mayne  Reid.  I  happen 
to  have  a  copy  of  one  of  my  latest  works  in  my 
pocket.  Perhaps  it  might  interest  you  to 
glance  through  it.  In  return  for  the  tobacco, 
—  with  the  author's  compliments." 

Joyce  received  into  his  hands  a  thin  volume 
in  a  gaudy  paper  wrapper.  It  was  entitled 
"The  Doom  of  the  Floating  Fiend."  The 
printing,  in  packed  double-column,  and  the 
paper  were  execrable.  The  author's  name 
did  not  figure  beneath  the  title.  From  the 
most  cursory  glance  through  the  pages,  Joyce 
could  see  they  were  deluged  in  blood. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  read  it,"  he  said,  men- 
daciously, putting  it  into   his  pocket. 

"If  you  find  anything  noteworthy  of  criti- 
cism in  my  style,  I  should  feel  grateful  for  you 
to  tell  me,"  said  Noakes.  "  My  ambition  is  to 
write  some  day  for  a  more  cultured  public.  I 
have  a  pastoral  idyll  that  I  shall  write  when 
I  have  time.  But,  you  see,  there  is  a  continuous 
market  for  books  of  adventure."  ' 

4  49 


Derelicts 

He  spoke  in  a  toneless,  even  voice,  without  a 
shade  of  enthusiasm  or  regret  appearing  in  his 
eyes. 

"  Do  you  think  it  would  be  of  any  use  for  an 
outsider  to  try  it  —  one  not  in  the  swim  with 
the  publishers  ?  "  asked  Joyce,  curiously. 

"  Certainly.  But  one  needs  the  imaginative 
faculty.  If  you'll  look  at  my  forehead,  you 
will  see  I  have  it  firmly  developed.  Allow  me 
to  look  at  yours.  Yes ;  I  see  it  there.  Once 
started,  it  is  constant  employment.  They  pay 
half  a  crown  per  thousand  words.  I  do  my 
three  thousand  a  day." 

Noakes  rose  to  depart. 

"Thanks  for  the  information,**  said  Joyce. 
"  I  may  try  my  hand.  Won't  you  have  a 
glass  with  me  before  you  go?" 

"  No,  tha-  .k  you,"  said  Noakes.  "  I  find 
stimulants  interfere  with  brain-work.  Good 
evening." 

Noakes  gone,  Joyce  found  himself  next  to 
the  red-headed  ex-rector,  who  was  fast  asleep, 
his  dirty,  pudgy  fingers  clasped  in  his  lap. 
He  remained,  therefore,  solitary,  and  after 
having  looked  for  some  time  dejectedly  at 
the  three  ever-clicking  balls  on  the  table,  he 
went  out  again  into  the  street. 

50 


In   the   Depths 


Noakes's  hint  had  taken  root  in  his  mind. 
If  that  dilapidated  man  could  maintain  himself 
honestly  by  "  popular  fiction,"  surely  he  could 
do  so  too.  Off  and  on  during  the  last  five 
months  he  had  striven  to  write  an  article  or 
short  story,  but  his  mind  had  refused  to  work. 
The  conviction  that  his  intellect  had  been  shat- 
tered during  those  two  awful  years  had  added 
to  his  despair.  But  now  he  told  himself  that 
this  was  work  in  which  intellectual  subtlety  and 
fastidiousness  would  prove  a  hindrance.  The 
one  thing  needfiil  was  imagination :  also  a  ter- 
rible faculty  for  continuous  quill -driving.  To 
gain  a  livelihood  there  would  have  to  be 
written  daily  stuff  equal  to  three  columns  of 
the  "  Globe "  newspaper.  And  seven-and- 
sixpence  as  the  reward !  A  noble  end,  he 
thought  bitterly  to  himself  as  he  walked  along, 
to  the  ambition  of  Stephen  Chisely,  double- 
first  of  New  College,  Oxford  —  to  become 
a  writer  of  "  penny  bloods." 

Still,  the  suggestion  had  acted  as  a  stimulus. 
When  he  entered  his  room,  he  did  not  feel  so 
broken  and  purposeless  as  when  he  had  left 
it.  The  intellectual  effort  he  had  made  whilst 
walking  home  in  scheming  out  an  experimental 
chapter  had  broken  the  spell  of  morbid  inti'o- 

51 


Derelicts 

spection.  As  soon  as  he  had  lit  the  gas,  he 
drew  out  writing  materials,  and,  sitting  before 
his  dressing-table,  began  the  scene  of  slaughter 
he  had  arranged.  At  the  end  of  a  couple  of  hours 
he  found  he  had  written  two  slips  of  one  hundred 
and  fifty  words  each.  He  regarded  them  rue- 
fully. At  that  rate  it  would  take  him  twenty 
hours  a  day  to  earn  his  seven-and-sixpence.  The 
idea  occurred  to  him  to  look  at  the  "  Doom  of 
the  Floating  Fiend."  He  read  a  few  pages  and 
then  dropped  the  work  hopelessly  on  to  the 
iioor.  The  instinct  of  the  scholar  and  man  of 
culture  awakened  in  revolt.  His  mind  would 
not  be  prostituted  to  stuff  like  that. 

"  Sooner  death ! "  he  said  to  himself,  with 
whimsical  bitterness.  His  own  carefully  elab- 
orated efforts  he  tore  up  with  a  sigh.  Then, 
tired  out,  he  prepared  to  go  to  bed. 

Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  his  undressing,  he 
caught  sight,  to  his  immense  surprise,  of  a  letter 
lying  on  his  counterpane,  where  the  maid  of  all 
work  had  carelessly  thrown  it.  From  whom 
could  it  be  ?  Letters  were  things  of  an  almost 
forgotten  past.  It  was  in  a  woman's  hand. 
Then  he  remembered  he  had  given  his  ad- 
dress to  Yvonne.  The  letter  was  from  her, 
and  ran :  — 


In  the   Depths 


"  Dear  Stephen,  —  Oh,  why  did  n't  you  come 
last  night  ?  I  was  so  disappointed.  You  surely 
did  n't  think  I  only  asked  you  out  of  ocliteness.  I 
hope  nothing  has  happened  to  you.  My  head  was 
running  over  all  day  with  a  little  plan  for  you.  Do 
come  and  catch  it  before  it  all  runs  away.  I  shall 
be  in  to-morrow  afternoon. 

You  know  it 's  just  like  old  times — writing  a  silly 
little  note  to  you. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Yvonne  Latour." 

Joyce  went  to  bed  and  slept  the  sound  sleep 
of  a  jaded  man.  But  the  letter  lay  under  his 
pillow. 


53 


CHAPTER   IV 

DEA    EX    MACHINA 

"There  's  nothing  like  leather,"  cried  Yvonne, 
gaily.  "  If  I  had  been  a  milliner,  I  should 
have  thought  what  a  gentlemanly  shopwalker 
you  would  have  made.  As  I  am  a  singer,  I 
can  only  think  of  the  profession.  You  did  n't 
know  I  was  so  philosophical,  did  you  ? " 

"  But  I  can't  sing  a  note  now,  Madame 
Latour,"  said  Joyce. 

"  We  '11  try  after  you  have  had  some  tea. 
But  you  '11  be  good  enough  for  Brum,  I  'm 
quite  sure.  If  he  did  n't  take  you  on  I  should 
never  speak  to  him  again." 

With  which  terrible  threat  she  poured  the  tea 
outside  the  cup  into  the  saucer. 

"It  seems  too  good  to  be  true,"  said  Joyce, 
in  a  subdued  tone.  "  It  seemed  impossible 
I  should  ever  get  work  among  honest  men 
again.  I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you,  Madame 
Latour —  I  cannot  tell  you  how  deeply." 

54 


Dea  ex  Machina 

"  Here  is  some  tea,"  said  Yvonne,  cup  In 
hand,  "  I  have  put  milk  in,  but  no  sugar. 
I  am  so  glad  you  like  my  little  scheme.  I  was 
afraid  it  was  n't  worth  your  while." 

Joyce  laughed  ironically. 

"Ycu  wouldn't  say  that  if  you  knew  the 
posts  I  have  sought  after,  the  advertisements 
I  h?ve  answered.  It  will  be  a  fortune  to 
me.'' 

"And  it  may  lead  —  how  far,  you  don't 
know.  Why  in  two  or  three  years  you  may 
be  playing  a  leading  part  in  a  West  End  light 
opera.  Or  you  may  do  dramatic  business 
and  come  to  the  top.  One  never  can  tell. 
Won't  it  be  nice  when  you  can  command  your 
£^o  or  ^50  a  week  ?  " 

Yvonne  was  very  happy.  She  had  con- 
ceived the  plan  all  by  herself  and  had  gone  off 
impulsively  to  Brum  to  put  it  into  execution. 
Joyce's  future  was  assured.  His  cleverness, 
of  which  she  used  to  be  a  little  afraid  in  earlier 
years,  would  soon  lift  him  from  the  ranks. 
She  was  excited  over  this  forecast  of  his  suc- 
cess. But  Joyce  could  not  look  so  far  ahead. 
All  he  could  feel  was  a  wondrous  relief  to' 
find  a  door  still  open  for  him,  gratitude  to  the 
woman  who   had  led  him  to  it.      His  spirit 

55 


Derelicts 

was  too  shrouded  to  catch  a  gleam  of  her  en- 
thusiasm.    She  strove  to  brighten  him. 

"You  will  find  Brum  all  right.  He  has 
always  been  good  to  me,  since  I  stepped  into 
a  gap  for  him  once  at  a  charity  matinee  — 
a  medley  entertainment,  you  know.  When  he 
has  a  theatre  in  London  he  always  sends  me 
a  box,  if  there 's  one  vacant.  You  see,  I  knew 
he  was  taking  out  '  The  Diamond  Door,'  into 
the  provinces,  and  he  pays  pretty  high  salaries 
all  round  —  so  I  did  n't  see  why  you  should  n't 
have  a  chance  in  the  chorus.  Oh,  you  '11  like 
the  stage  so  much.  I  wish  I  were  on,  instead 
of  singing  at  concerts.  I  have  always  han- 
kered after  it." 

"  Why  don't  you  make  the  change  ?  "  asked 
Joyce. 

"  I  *m  not  good  enough.  I  am  too  insigni- 
ficant. But  I  don't  really  mind.  I  love  singing 
for  singing's  sake,  no  matter  where  it  is.  I  only 
have  one  great  anxiety  in  life  —  that  I  should 
lose  my  voice.  Then  I  should  put  my  head 
under  my  wing  and  die,  like  the  cigale.  That 
is  to  say,  if  the  cigale  has  wings  —  has  she  ?  " 

"  Yes,  pretty  brown  wings  —  as  yours  must 
be.  I  believe  you  have  them  somewhere 
hidden  from  us." 

56 


Dea  ex  Machina 

"  You  must  n't  make  pretty  speeches,**  said 
Yvonne,  pleased. 

"It  expresses  clumsily  what  I  feel,**  said 
Joyce,  with  a  sudden  rush  of  feeling.  "  I  have 
been  asking  myself  what  are  the  common 
grounds  on  which  we  can  meet  —  you,  a  pure, 
bright,  beautiful  soul  —  and  I,  a  mean,  de- 
graded man,  who  knows  it  to  be  almost  an 
outrage  upon  you  to  cross  your  threshold. 
I  feel  we  are  not  of  the  same  human  clay.  I 
wonder  how  it  is  that  the  sight  of  me  does  n't 
frighten  you.  Thank  God  you  don't  see  me 
as  I  see  myself" 

"  Hush ! "  said  Yvonne,  gently. 

She  glanced  at  him  in  a  puzzled  way,  unable 
to  comprehend.  She  knew  that  he  felt  his 
disgrace  very  deeply,  but  she  could  not  under- 
stand the  way  in  which  he  related  it  with  her- 
self. Beyond  looking  careworn  and  ill,  he 
seemed  almost  the  same  externally  as  in  the 
days  of  their  former  intimacy ;  and  more  so 
now  than  on  the  occasion  of  their  meeting  on 
the  Bank  Holiday,  when  he  was  shabbily 
attired.  Now  he  was  wearing  a  new  blue  serge 
suit  and  a  carefully  tied  cravat  —  he  had  bought 
the  clothes  on  the  chance  of  his  being  suddenly 
required  to  be  correctly  dressed,  and  this  was 

S7 


Derelicts 

his  first  time  of  wearing  them  —  and  looked  at 
all  points  the  neat,  well-groomed  gentleman 
she  had  always  known ;  so  that  she  found  it 
difficult  to  realize  fully  even  the  change  in  his 
material  fortunes.  The  blight  that  had  come 
over  his  soul  was  altogether  beyond  her  power 
of  perception.  She  could  find  no  words  to 
supplement  her  sympathetic  exclamation,  and 
so  there  was  silence.  When  she  looked  at  him 
again,  as  he  sat  opposite,  his  cheek  resting  on 
his  hand,  and  his  mournful  eyes  fixed  upon 
her,  she  found  herself  thinking  what  a  good- 
looking  fellow  he  was,  with  his  clear-cut  face, 
refined  features  and  trim  blonde  moustache. 
It  was  a  pity  he  had  those  deep  lines  on  each 
side  of  his  mouth  and  wore  so  unsmiling  an 
expression.  There  was  sunshine  in  Yvonne's 
heart  that  quickly  dissipated  clouds.  She  rose 
suddenly,  and  went  round  to  the  key-board  of 
the  great  piano. 

"  I  '11  sing  you  something  first  and  then  we  '11 
try  your  voice." 

She  paused  before  she  sat  down,  and  asked : 

"  Would  you  like  something  sad  or  some- 
thing gay  ? " 

The  afternoon  light,  slanting  in  through  the 
further  unshaded  window,   fell  full    upon  her, 

58 


Dea  ex  Machina 

and  revealed  the  warmth  of  her  cheeks  and  the 
smiling  softness  of  her  lips.  To  have  de- 
manded sadness  of  her  would  have  been  an 
act  of  unreason. 

"  Something    bright,"   said   Joyce,    instinc- 
tively. 

She  ran  her  fingers  over  the  keys  and  broke 
into  a  barcarolle  of  Theophile  Gautier. 

**  Ditesy  lajeune  belles 
Oil  voulez-vous  aller  ? 
La  voile  ouvre  son  aile. 
La  brise  va  souffler! 

Vaviron  est  d^ivoire^ 
Le  pavilion  de  moire j 
Le  gouvernail  d'or  fin  ; 
J^  ai  pour  lest  une  orange^ 
Pour  voile  une  aile  d'angiy 
Pour  mousse  un  serapbin** 

Her  exquisite  voice,  sounding  like  crystal  in 
the  little  room,  seemed  to  Joyce  as  if  it  came 
from  the  dainty  boat.  Her  sweet  face  seemed 
to  peep  forth  under  the  angel's  wing,  mocking 
the  seraphic  cabin-boy. 

The  setting  was  as  perfect  as  her  rendering. 
All  the  joy  and  inconsequence  of  life  rang  from 
her  lips.     She  came  to  the  last  verse» 

59 


Derelicts 

**  DiteSf  lajeune  he  He, 
Oil  voulez-vous  alter  ? 
La  voile  ouvre  son  aile. 
La  brise  va  souffier  ! 

—  Menez-moi,  dit  la  belle, 
A  la  rive  Jidele 

Ok  I 'on  aime  toujours. 

—  Cette  rive,  ma  chere. 
On  ne  la  connait  guere 
Au  pays  des  amours''' 

When  she  had  finished,  she  looked  up  at 
him,  as  he  leaned  over  the  tail  of  the  piano, 
with  laughter  in  her  eyes. 

"  I  adore  that  song.  It  is  so  lovely  and 
irresponsible.  Canon  Chisely  says  it  is  cynical. 
But  it  always  puts  me  in   mind  of  a  dragon- 

**  I  am  afraid  Everard  is  right,"  replied 
Joyce,  with  a  smile.  "  But  if  you  live  in  the 
fairyland  of  love,  constancy  must  be  a  serious 
hindrance  to  affairs." 

"  Oh,  now  you  talk  just  as  you  used  to  !  " 
cried  Yvonne,  "  I  '11  sing  you  something  else.' 
She  scamped  the  prelude  in  her  impulsive 
way,  and  began,  "  Coming  thro'  the  Rye." 
His  black  mood  was  lifted.  The  tender,  mis- 
chievous  charm  of  her  voice  held  him  in  a 

60 


Dea   ex   Machina 

spell,  and  he  smiled  at  her  like  "  a'  the  lads  ** 
in  the  song. 

"  Now  it  is  your  turn,"  she  said,  reaching 
towards  a  pile  of  songs.  "  Help  me  to  choose 
one." 

He  selected  one  that  he  used  to  sing  and 
commenced  it  creditably.  But  after  a  few 
bars  he  broke  down.  Yvonne  encouraged 
him  to  take  it  again,  which  he  did  with  greater 
success.  But  his  voice,  a  high  baritone,  was 
wofully  out  of  condition.  At  a  second  break  - 
down,  he  looked  at  her  in  dismay. 

"  I  fear  it 's  no  good,"  he  said. 

"  Oh,  yes  it  is,"  said  Yvonne.  "  They  don't 
want  a  Santley  in  the  chorus  of  the  provincial 
company  of  a  comic-opera.  We'll  have  a  good 
long  time  now.  You  shall  do  some  scales.  And 
you  can  come  in  to-morrow  morning,  before  you 
go  to  Brum,  and  have  half-an-hour  more,  and 
that  will  set  you  right." 

The  little  authoritative  air  sat  oddly  upon 
her.  Vandeleur  used  to  say  that  Yvonne  in 
a  business  mood  was  even  more  serious  than 
a  child  playing  at  parson.  But  she  knew  she 
was  giving  a  professional  opinion ;  and  that 
was  bound  to  be  serious.  Taking  him  through 
the    scales,    then,    in     her    best    professional 

6i 


Derelicts 

manner,  she  brought  the  practice  to  a  sat- 
isfactory conclusion.  Then  she  became  the 
sunny  Yvonne  again,  and,  after  he  had  gone, 
sat  smiUng  to  herself  with  the  conscious  hap- 
piness of  a  fairy  god-mother. 

The  interview  with  Brum,  the  manager,  was 
satisfactory,  and  Joyce  after  accepting  the  en- 
gagement at  thirty  shillings  a  week,  went 
straight  on  to  rehearse  with  the  rest  of  the 
chorus.  And  after  this  there  were  daily 
rehearsals  extending  to  the  Sunday  two  weeks 
ahead  when  the  start  was  to  be  made  for 
Newcastle,  where  the  company  opened.  After 
the  first  two  or  three  days,  the  rather  helpless 
sense  of  unfamiliarity  wore  off,  and  Joyce 
found  his  task  an  easy  one.  His  voice,  by 
comparison,  certainly  warranted  his  selection, 
and  in  knowledge  of  music  and  general  ability 
he  was  vastly  superior  to  his  colleagues,  who 
received  rough  usage  for  stupidity  at  the  hands 
of  the  stage-managrer.  He  found  them  mostly 
dull,  uneducated  men,  two  or  three  with  wives 
in  the  female  chorus,  very  jealous  of  their 
rights  and  the  order  of  precedence  among 
them,  but  with  little  ambition  and  less  capacity. 
In  spite  of  the  old  suit,  which  he  was   careful 

62 


Dea  ex   Machina 

to  wear,  he  was  looked  upon  at  first,  rather 
resentfully,  as  an  amateur ;  but  he  bore  dis- 
paraging remarks  with  philosophical  unconcern, 
an  i,  after  a  judicious  drink  or  two  at  a  "  pro- 
fessional "  bar  near  the  stage-door  of  the 
theatre,  he  was  accepted  among  them  without 
further  demur. 

But  Joyce  was  too  much  exercised  at  this 
time  with  his  own  relations  to  himself  to  think 
much  of  his  relations  to  others.  The  reaction 
from  the  most  poignant  despair  he  had  known 
since  his  freedom,  to  sudden  hope,  had  set 
working  many  springs  of  resolution.  He 
would  banish  all  thoughts  of  the  past  from  his 
mind,  forget  Stephen  Chisely  in  the  new  man 
Stephen  Joyce,  take  up  the  new  threads  fate 
had  spun  for  him,  and  weave  them  into  a  new 
life  without  allowing  any  of  them  to  cross  the 
old :  a  resolution  which  would  be  laughable, 
were  It  not  so  eternal,  and  so  pathetic  in  its 
futility.  The  world  will  never  know  the 
enormous  expenditure  of  will-power  by  its 
weak   men. 

The  fortnight,  however,  passed  in  something 
near  to  contentment  and  peace  of  soul.  If  we 
can  cheat  ourselves  into  serenity  at  times,  it 
is  a  gift  to  be  thankful  for.     Besides,  occupa^^ 

63 


Derelicts 

tion  IS  a  great  anodyne  to  trouble ;  and  the 
provincial  production  of  a  great  London  suc- 
cess offers  considerable  occupation  for  those 
concerned  in  it.  Rehearsals  were  called  twice 
a  day,  morning  and  evening.  As  Joyce  did 
not  leave  the  theatre  until  nearly  midnight  he 
had  no  time  to  look  in  at  the  familiar  billiard- 
room,  and  so  Noakes  and  his  "  penny  bloods  " 
were  forgotten.  On  the  other  hand  he  spent 
several  of  his  afternoons  with  Yvonne,  who  was 
delighted  with  his  accounts  of  himself,  and  sent 
him  away  cheered  and  sanguine. 

"  The  only  thing  I  regret,"  said  Joyce,  dur- 
ing his  farewell  visit,  "  is  that  I  shall  be  cutting 
myself  off  from  you.  I  suppose  every  one 
is  entitled  to  a  grievance.  And  this  is  mine. 
Do  you  know  you  are  the  only  friend  I  have 
in  the  world  ?  " 

As  Yvonne  knew  that  the  world  was  very 
big  and  that  she  herself  was  very  small,  the 
fact  somewhat  awed  her.  She  regarded  him 
pityingly  for  a  moment.  "What  a  dreadful 
thing  it  must  be  to  feel  alone  like  that.*' 

"  I  have  n't  felt  it  so,  since  I  met  you,'* 
said  Joyce. 

"  But  you  won't  have  ev«n  me,  any  more. 
I  wish  I  could  help  you.** 

64 


Dea  ex  Machina 

"  Help  me  ?  Why,  you  Ve  raised  me  out  of 
the  gutter,  Madame  Latour." 

"  Oh,  don't  call  me  *  Madame  Latour,* "  she 
said,  "  I  don't  call  you  '  Mr.  Joyce.'  I  am 
*  Yvonne  '  to  all  my  friends.  You  used  to  call 
me  *  Yvonne  '  once." 

"  You  were  not  my  benefactress  then,"  said 
Joyce. 

"  Please  don't  call  me  hard  names,"  she  re- 
turned whimsically,  "or  I  shall  be  afraid  of 
you,  as  I  used  to  be." 

"  Afraid  of  me  ?  "  echoed  Joyce. 

"  Yes.  Were  n't  you  dreadfully  clever  ?  I 
was  always  afraid  you  would  think  me  silly. 
And  then,  often  I  could  not  quite  understand 
what  you  were  saying  —  how  much  you  meant 
of  what  you  said.      Don't  you  see  ?  " 

"  I  see  I  must  have  been  insufferable,"  he 
replied.  "  It  makes  what  you  are  to  me  now 
all  the  more  beautiful.  But  I  scarcely  dare 
call  you  *  Yvonne '  —  don't  you  understand  ? 
But  it  would  gladden  me  to  write  it.  May  I 
write  to  you  on  my  pilgrimage  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  so  good  of  you,  if  you  would,'* 
she  answered  eagerly.  "  I  do  love  people  to 
write  to  me." 

She    had   unconsciously    slipped    from   )ier 
5  6a 


Derelicts 

fairy-godmother  attitude.  Her  simple  mind 
could  not  look  upon  welcoming  his  letters  as 
an  act  of  gracious  ness. 

"  Would  you  sing  to  me  once  more  before  I 
go  ?  "  he  asked,  a  little  later.  "  I  don't  know 
when  I  shall  see  you  again,  and  I  should  like  to 
carry  away  a  song  of  yours  to  cheer  me." 

She  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  sang 
Gounod's  Serenade.  Something  in  its  yearn- 
ing tenderness  touched  the  man  in  his  softened 
mood.  The  pure  passion  of  Yvonne's  voice 
pierced  through  the  thick  layers  of  shame  and 
dead  hopes  and  deadening  memories  that  had 
encrusted  round  his  heart,  and  met  it  in  a 
tiny  thrill.  He  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  star- 
ing at  the  walls,  which  grew  misty  before  his 
eyes.  The  scene  changed  and  he  was  back 
again  in  his  mother's  house  and  Yvonne  was 
singing  this  song.  The  benumbing  spell  that 
had  kept  him  dry-eyed  since  the  news  came 
to  him  of  his  mother's  death,  was  lifted  for 
the  moment.  But,  only  when  a  sudden  silence 
broke  the  charm,  was  he  aware  that  tears 
were  on  his  face. 

He  brushed  them  away  quickly,  rose,  took 
her  hand  and  kissed  it,  and  then  he  laughed 
awkwardly,  and  bade  her  good-bye. 

66 


Dea  ex   Machina 

On  his  way  downstairs  he  brushed  against  a 
man  ascending-  It  was  a  squarely-built,  keen- 
faced  man  of  forty  in  clerical  attire.  Each 
stepped  aside  to  apologise,  and  then  came  the 
flash  of  recognition.  Joyce  looked  down  m 
some  confusion.  But  Canon  Chisely  turned 
on  his  heel  and  continued  his  ascent. 

Joyce  walked  away  moodily.  His  cousin's 
cut  brought  back  the  old  familiar  sense  of 
degradation  which  Yvonne  had  charmed  away. 
Again  he  realised  that  he  was  an  outcast,  a 
blot  upon  society,  an  object  of  scorn  for  men 
of  good  repute.  No  one  but  Yvonne  could 
have  befriended  him  and  forgotten  what  he 
was.  And  Yvonne  herself,  —  was  her  friend- 
ship not  perhaps  solely  due  to  her  childhke 
incapacity  to  appreciate  the  depths  of  his  dis- 
grace ?  He  would  have  given  anything  not  tr 
have  met  the  Canon  on  the  stairs. 

Three  weeks  afterwards  Yvonne  was  at 
Brighton  for  change  of  air  and  holiday,  ac- 
companied by  Geraldine  Vicary,  her  dearest 
friend,  confidante,  and  chastener.  They  had 
taken  lodgings  in  Lansdowne  Place,  where 
they  shared  a  sitting-room  and  discussed 
Yvonne's   prospects   and    peccadilloes.      Not 

67 


Derelicts 

but  what  the  discussion  was  continued  out  of 
doors,  on  the  Parade,  or  in  a  quiet  nook  on 
the  sands  at  Shoreham ;  but  it  proceeded 
much  more  effectively  within  four  walls,  where 
there  was  nothing  to  distract  Yvonne's  atten- 
tion. Miss  Vicary  had  her  friend's  good  most 
disinterestedly  at  heart,  and  Yvonne  herself 
loved  these  discussions,  very  much  as  she 
loved  church.  She  felt  a  great  deal  better 
and  wiser,  without  in  the  least  knowing  why. 
In  intervals  of  leisure  they  idled  about,  dis- 
sected passing  finery,  and  ate  prodigious  quan- 
tities of  ices  —  which,  as  all  the  world  knows, 
is  the  proper  way  to  enjoy  Brighton. 

They  were  sitting  in  one  of  the  shelters  on 
the  cliff  overlooking  the  electric  toy-railway. 
It  was  a  lovely  day.  A  sea-breeze  ruffled  the 
blue  Channel  into  a  myriad  dancing  ridges, 
and  blew  Yvonne's  mass  of  dark  hair  further 
back  from  her  forehead.  Suddenly  she  slipped 
her  hand  into  her  friend's. 

"  Oh,  Dina,  is  n't  this  delicious ! " 
"  Rapturous,"  said  Geraldine,  with  a  smile. 
She  was  a  tall,  plainly-dressed  young  woman, 
some  four  years  older  than  Yvonne,  with  a 
pleasant,  frank  face  and  a  decided  manner. 
She  wore  a  plain  sailor-hat,  a  blouse,  and  a 

68 


Dea  ex  Machina 

grey-stufF  skirt  that  hung  rather  badly  beneath 
a  buff  belt;  thus  contrasting  with  Yvonne, 
who  suggested  dainty  perfection  of  attire,  from 
the  diminutive  bonnet  to  the  toe  of  her  little 
brown  shoe.  Miss  Vicary  gave  the  impression 
of  the  typical  schoolmistress,  which  she  would 
most  probably  have  been,  had  not  the  posses- 
sion of  a  magnificent  voice  decided  her  career 
otherwise. 

"  I  mean  it 's  delicious  being  here  alone 
with  you,"  returned  Yvonne.  "Away  from 
men  altogether." 

"They  are  a  horrid  lot,"  said  Geraldine, 
drily.  "  I  wonder  you  see  as  much  of  them 
as  you  do." 

"  But  how  can  I  help  it  ?  They  will  keep 
coming  my  way.  Oh,  I  wish  they  were  all 
women.     It  would  be  so  much  nicer ! " 

Geraldine  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  You  goose ! "  she  said.  "  You  would  n't 
have  the  women  falling  in  love  with  you  as 
the  men  do  !  " 

"  But  I  don't  want  them  to  fall  In  love  with 
me,"  cried  Yvonne.  "  It  is  so  stupid.  I  don't 
fell  in  love  with  them." 

"Then  why  do  you  give  them  encourage- 
ment?     I  am  always  at  you  about  it." 

69 


Derelicts 

-*  1  am  only  kind  to  them,  as  any  one  else 
would  be." 

"  Fiddlesticks,  my  dear.  You  should  keep 
them  in  their  place." 

"  But  what  is  their  place  ?  "  asked  Yvonne, 
pathetically.  "  I  never  know.  That  is  why  I 
wish  they  were  women.  Oh,  I  love  so  being 
here  with  you,  Dina.  I  wish  I  had  a  lot  of 
women  friends  that  I  could  talk  to  when  I 
can't  see  you.  But  you  're  the  only  real 
woman  friend  I  Ve  got." 

"  You  dear  Httle  mite  ! "  exclaimed  Geral- 
dine,  with  sudden  impulse.  "  I  can't  see  why 
women  don't  take  to  you.  And  I  can  under- 
stand all  the  men  falling  in  love  with  you. 
Even  the  Canon." 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  say  such  a  thing  ?  **  cried 
Yvonne,  quickly,  the  colour  coming  into  her 
cheeks. 

"  By  reason  of  the  intelligence  that  God  has 
given  me,  my  dear,"  replied  Geraldine.  "  I 
would  send  him  packing  if  I   were  you.'* 

"  It  is  very  kind  indeed  of  a  man  like  that  to 
come  and  see  me." 

"  And  to  pick  you  out  from  among  all  the 
concert  singers  in  London  for  his  musical 
festival  ?  " 

70 


Dea  ex   Machina 

"  But  we  're  old  friends,  Dina.  He  Is  onlj 
doing  me  a  good  turn." 

"  So  as  to  deserve  another,  you  simple 
darling.  In  the  meantime,  I  would  n't  en- 
courage Vandeleur  or  your  new  protege,  the 
Canon's  unmentionable  cousin." 

"You  know,  I  once  thought  there  was 
something  between  you  and  Van,"  remarked 
Yvonne,  with  guileless  inconsequence. 

"  Rubbish  ! "  said  Miss  Vicary.  And  then 
she  added,  rising  hastily,  after  a  moment's 
silence,  "  Look,  you  are  getting  chilly  in  this 
cold  wind,  —  and  I  am  sure  you  have  next 
to  nothing  underneath." 

To  keep  Yvonne  out  of  draughts  and  other 
pretexts  for  catching  cold  was  one  of  Miss 
Vicary's  self-imposed  tasks,  and  she  sought 
to  compensate  Yvonne's  reckless  exposure  of 
herself  when  alone  by  excess  of  vigilance  on 
her  own  part  when  Yvonne  was  under  her 
control  —  which  is  not  an  uncommon  irra- 
tionality in  women,  who,  geniuses  or  not,  have 
an  infinite  capacity  for  taking  superfluous  pains. 
However,  in  spite  of  her  maternal  precautions, 
it  happened  that  Yvonne  was  laid  up  two  or 
three  days  afterwards  with  a  cold  which  flew  at 
once  to  her  throat.     Although  in  no  way  seri- 

71 


Derelicts 

ous.  It  filled  her  with  dismay.  She  knew  her 
throat  to  be  delicate.  That  her  voice  might 
one  day  fail  her  was  the  dread  of  her  life. 

"  What  does  he  say  about  me  ? "  she  asked, 
pathetically,  when  Geraldine  had  returned  from 
a  short  consultation  with  the  doctor.  "Is  it 
going  to  hurt  my  voice  ?  Oh,  do  tell  me, 
Dina?" 

"  You  must  n't  talk,  or  else  it  will,**  replied 
Geraldine,  severely. 

Then  she  threw  off  the  chastener,  put  on  the 
consoler,  and,  sitting  on  the  bed,  petted  Yvonne 
until  she  had  restored  her  mind  to  a  measure  of 
peace. 

"  Then  I  must  throw  up  my  engagements  ?  '* 
Yvonne  asked,  wistfully,  after  a  while. 

"  Certainly  the  one  here  next  week.  But 
don't  bother  your  dear  little  head  about  it." 

"  And  the  concerts  at  Fulminster  for  Canon 
Chisely.     I  must  get  well  for  them,  Dina." 

"  Why,  of  course  you  will,"  replied  Geral- 
dine. "They  are  weeks  and  weeks  ahead. 
Besides,  let  the  Canon  go  to  Jericho !  " 

"Why  are  you  so  hard  upon  Canon 
Chisely  ?  "  asked  Yvonne. 

"A  case  of  Dr.  Fell,  I  suppose.  I  dan*t 
like  his  always  hanging  about  you." 

72 


Dea  ex  Machina 

Yvonne  burst  out  laughing. 
"  I  believe  you  are  jealous,  Dina,"  she  cried, 
Miss  Vicary's  retort  was  checked  by  the 
entrance  of  the  landlady  with  Yvonne's  sup- 
per. She  busied  herself  with  the  arrangement 
of  plates  and  dishes  on  the  tray.  But  all  the 
time  the  expression  on  her  face  was  that  of  a 
woman  who  foresees  a  considerable  amount 
of  trouble  to  come. 


73 


CHAPFER   V 

THE    COMIC    MUSE 

The  common  dressing-room  appointed  for 
the  male  members  of  the  chorus  was  crowded 
with  half-attired  men,  strangely  painted  and 
moustachioed.  The  low,  blackened  ceiling 
beat  down  the  heat  from  the  gas-jets  over  the 
dressing-ledges,  and  the  air  reeked  of  stuffi- 
ness, tobacco,  and  yellow  soap.  Everywhere 
was  a  confusion  of  garments,  grease-paints, 
open  bags,  beer  bottles,  and  half-emptied 
glasses.  It  wanted  only  five  minutes  to  the 
rise  of  the  curtain,  and  hurry  prevailed  among 
belated  ones,  who  got  in  each  other's  way  and 
swore  lustily. 

Joyce  had  finished  dressing.  He  wore  a 
mandarin's  hat,  a  green  robe,  a  pigtail,  and 
long,  drooping  moustaches,  like  the  rest  of  his 
companions.  Having  nothing  more  to  do,  he 
was  leaning  back  against  the  dressing-table  with 

74 


The   Comic  Muse 

folded  arms,  and  staring  absently  in  front  of 
him. 

"  You  are  looking  down  in  the  mouth,  old 
man,"  said  the  man  who  dressed  next  to  him, 
turning  away  from  the  mirror  and  buttoning 
his  robe. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  McKay  ?  "  said  Joyce^ 
with  a  start. 

"  I  asked  why  you  were  so  blooming  cheer- 
ful," answered  the  other. 

"  I  was  only  thinking,"  said  Joyce. 

"  It  seems  to  be  an  unpleasant  operation,  old 
man." 

"  Don't  you  see  it 's  of  her  ?  "  said  another 
man  standing  by.  "  They  're  always  like 
that." 

"  Perhaps  it 's  better  to  put  her  out  of  your 
mind  and  grin  —  is  n't  it  ?  "  retorted  Joyce, 
pointedly,  for  the  railer's  quasi-matrimonial 
squabbles  had  already  become  a  byword  in 
the  company.  McKay  burst  into  a  loud 
laugh,  in  which  those  who  heard  joined,  and 
the  railer  retired  in  discomfiture. 

"Had  him  there,"  said  McKay.  "Well, 
how 's  the  world,  anyway  ?  " 

"  Oh,  all  right !  "  replied  Joyce,  vaguely. 

"  Blake  and  I  took  his  missus  and  two  oi 
75 


Derelicts 

the  girls  for  a  sail  to-day,"  said  the  other. 
*'  If  the  whole  crew  had  n't  been  sick,  we 
should  have  had  a  gay  old  time.  Been  doing 
anything  ? " 

"  No.     What  is  there  to  do  ?  " 

"At  Southpc>ol  "^  Why,  there's  no  end  of 
things.  I  wish  we  went  to  some  more  seaside 
places,  late  as  it  is." 

"  I  don't  think  it  matters  much  where  we 
go,"  said  Joyce.     "  Life  is  just  the  same." 

"  I  suppose  it  is,  if  you  moon  around  by 
yourself.     Why  don't  you  get  a  pal  ? " 

"  Masculine  or  feminine  ?  "  asked  Joyce  ; 
for  there  was  as  much  pairing  in  the  company 
as  in  the  Ark. 

"Whichever  you  please.  You  pays  —  no 
you  don't  —  you  takes  your  choice  here 
without  paying  your  money.  But  take  my 
tip  and  keep  clear  of  women.  You  never 
know  when  they  '11  turn  round  and  scratch 
you  —  like  cats.  After  all,  what  can  you 
expect  of  'em  ?  I  've  done  with  'em  all  long 
ago." 

"  What  about  the  sea-sick  girls  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  would  n't  touch  any  of  'em  with  a  ten- 
foot  pole,"  repHed  the  misogynist,  with  bitter 
scorn.     "  I  never  was  in  an  engagement  where 

76 


The   Comic  Muse 

there  was  such  an  inferior  lot  of  ladies.  I  don't 
know  where  the  management  picked  them  up. 
And  to  think  of  the  number  of  nice  girls  in 
London  simply  starving  for  work." 

"  They  seem  right  enough,"  said  Joyce, 
indifferently. 

"  Gad  !  You  should  have  been  with  me  in 
*  Mother  Goose '  at  Leeds  this  winter.  I  was 
playing  one  of  the  men  in  the  moon  —  they 
noticed  me  from  the  front.  You  should  have 
seen  the  slap-up  lot  we  had  there.  What  kind 
of  shop  were  you  in  for  the  winter  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  another  walk  of  life,"  replied 
Joyce,  with  a  curl  of  his  lips. 

At  that  moment  the  call-boy*s  voice  was 
heard  in  the  passages :  "  Beginners  for  the 
first  act;"  and  then  he  appeared  himself  at 
the  door. 

"  Everybody  on  the  stage." 

They  trooped  out,  up  the  narrow  stairs  and 
along  the  dusty  passages  and  through  the 
wings  on  to  the  stage,  where  they  were  met 
by  the  ladies  of  the  chorus,  who  came  on 
from  the  other  side;  and  then  all  grouped 
themselves  in  their  customary  attitudes  under 
the  stage-manager's  eye.  Joyce  was  posed, 
second   on    the    left,  with   a   girl    resting   her 

77 


Derelicts 

head  on  his  knee.  He  greeted  her  as  she 
took  her  place. 

"  How  are  you  to-night,  Miss  Stevens  ? " 
he  whispered. 

"  Oh,  badly.  The  heat  in  the  dressing- 
room  is  awful." 

"  So  it  is  in  ours.  It  is  a  wonder  we  don't 
all  melt  together  in  a  sticky  lump." 

"It  is  the  worst  arranged  theatre  I  was 
ever  in." 

"  I  am  sorry,"  said  Joyce,  "  you  look  tired." 

"  Hush  —  the  orchestra  —  " 

The  curtain  rose  slowly,  revealing  the  glare 
of  the  footlights  and  the  vague  cavernous  dark- 
ness of  the  auditorium,  seen  shimmering,  as 
they  reclined  on  the  stage,  through  the  band 
of  unburned  gases  above  the  jets. 

The  opening  chorus  began  with  its  nod- 
ding-mandarin  business,  followed  by  eccentric 
evolutions.  Then  the  tenor  came  on  alone. 
He  jostled  Joyce  who  was  standing  near  the 
entrance. 

"  Damn  it,  don't  take  up  all  the  stage," 
he  muttered  irritably  under  cover  of  the  radiant 
expression  demanded  by  the  business. 

He  broke  into  his  song,  the  chorus  lining 
the   sides.      Then   two   minor   characters   ap- 

78 


The   Comic  Muse 

peared,  and  after  some  dialogue,  Interrupted 
by  Chinese  exclamations  of  delight  on  the 
part  of  the  chorus,  the  latter  danced  off  in 
pairs. 

"  I  do  call  that  cheek,"  said  Miss  Stevens, 
as  soon  as  they  had  reached  the  wings,  "  why 
could  n't  he  look  where  he  was  going  to  ? " 

"  Yes,  it  was  his  fault,"  said  Joyce. 

"  That 's  the  way  with  all  these  light  tenors 
—  simply  eaten  up  with  conceit.  If  I  were 
you  I  'd  give  him  a  piece  of  my  mind  and 
ask  him  what  the  something  he  meant  by 
it." 

"  I  have  n't  enough  individuality  here  to 
make  it  worth  while,"  replied  Joyce  with  a 
shrug  of  the  shoulders. 

The  girl  did  not  quite  understand,  but  she 
caught  enough  of  his  drift  to  perceive  that 
he  was  not  going  to  retaliate.  Possibly  she 
thought  him  a  poor-spirited  fellow.  **  Oh, 
well  —  if  you  like  being  insulted  — "  she 
said,  turning  away  toward  a  group  of  girls. 

Joyce  did  not  attempt  to  remonstrate.  What 
did  it  matter  whether  a  coxcomb  had  cursed 
him  ?  What  did  it  matter,  either,  whether  he 
had  fallen  in  Miss  Stevens's  estimation  ?  In 
fact,  what  did  anything  matter,  so  long  as  star- 

79 


Derelicts 

vation  was  not  staring  you  in  the  face,  or  your 
companion  was  not  pointing  at  the  trace  of 
black  arrows  ?  He  turned  also  and  joined  in 
desultory  whispering  with  McKay  and  Blake. 
At  the  end  of  the  first  act,  men  and  women 
went  off  at  different  sides  to  their  dressing- 
rooms.  It  was  only  during  a  wait  in  the 
second  act  that  he  found  himself  next  to  Miss 
Stevens  again. 

"Are  you  going  to  see  me  home  again  to- 
night after  the  performance  ?  "  she  asked. 

"If  you  will  allow  me,"  replied  Joyce. 

"  I  'm  sorry  I  was  short  with  you,"  she  said, 
awkwardly. 

"  Oh,  it  was  nothing." 

The  polite  indifference  in  his  tone  rather 
piqued  her.  She  was  naturally  a  plain,  anaemic 
girl  and  the  heavy  make-up  of  grease-paint 
did  not  render  her  more  attractive  at  close 
quarters.  The  knowledge  of  this  irritated  her 
the  more. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  care  about  anything." 

"  I  don't  much,"  said  Joyce. 

At  that  moment  the  leading  lady  came  off 
the  stage  and  passed  by  them  as  they  stood 
leaning  against  the  iron  raihngs  of  the  stair- 
case.   She  was  wearing  the  minimum  of  costume 

80 


The   Comic  Muse 

allowed  by  Celestial  etiquette,  and  looked  very 
fresh  and  charming. 

"  Oh,  you  are  Mr.  Joyce,  are  n't  you  ?  "  she 
said,  pausing  at  the  top  of  the  stairs ;  and,  as 
Joyce  bowed,  —  "  Some  one  told  me  you  were 
a  friend  of  Yvonne  Latour's." 

"  Yes,"  said  Joyce,  "  I  have  known  her  for 
a  very  long  time." 

"  How  is  she  ?    I  have  n't  seen  her  for  ages." 

She  moved  down  a  couple  of  steps,  so  Joyce 
had  to  lean  over  the  balustrade  to  reply. 

"  She 's  a  dear  little  creature.  I  used  to 
know  her  while  she  was  living  with  that  wretch 
of  a  husband  of  hers,"  said  the  lady,  look- 
ing up.  "  He  's  dead,  or  something,  is  n't 
he .?  " 

"  Yes,  thank  goodness,"  said  Joyce,  with 
more  warmth  perhaps  than  he  was  aware  of; 
for  she  smiled  and  replied  :  — 

"You  seem  to  look  upon  it  as  a  personal 
favour  on  the  part  of  Providence." 

"  I  think  it  is  a  personal  boon  to  all 
Madame  Latour's  friends." 

"  Oh,  I  am  delighted,"  she  said,  with  a  touch 
of  raillery.  "If  ever  there  was  a  marriage  that 
ought  to  have  been  labelled  *  made  in  heaven* 
that  was  one." 

6  8i 


Derelicts 


M 


Yes,   it   was   a    very    cheap    imitation    of 
native  goods,"  replied  Joyce,  with  a  smile. 

"  Well,  if  you  were  going  to  meet  her  soon, 
I  should  ask  you  to  remember  me  to  her ;  but 
as  we  are  on  a  long  tour  —  " 

"  I  shall  be  writing  shortly,"  he  interposed. 
.  "  Then   that    will    do.       Good-night,     Mr. 
Joyce." 

She  disappeared  down  the  stairs.  When 
Joyce  turned  round,  he  discovered  that  Miss 
Stevens  had  walked  off,  perhaps  in  dudgeon 
at  having  been  neglected.  Joyce  felt  sorry. 
She  was  the  only  girl  with  whom  he  cared  to 
be  on  friendly  terms  outside  the  theatre,  and 
who,  accordingly,  had  manifested  any  interest 
in  his  doings.  It  would  be  a  misfortune  if 
she  were  offended.  Meanwhile  the  late  unex- 
pected chat  about  Yvonne  had  been  very 
pleasant.  Miss  Verrinder  had  been  nice  and 
frank,  assuming  from  the  first  that  he  was  a 
gentleman,  and  could  be  spoken  to  without 
restraint.  Joyce  felt  the  fillip  to  his  spirits 
during  the  rest  of  the  performance. 

When  it  was  over,  he  dressed  as  quickly  as 
the  crowded  confusion  of  the  dressing-room 
rendered  possible,  and  refusing  an  invitation 
on  the  part  of  McKay  to  drink  at  the  adjoining 

^2 


The   Comic  Muse 

public-house,  went  down  the  short  street  that 
led  to  the  Parade,  where  he  had  arranged  to 
meet  Miss  Stevens. 

She  did  not  keep  him  long  waiting.  He 
relieved  her  of  a  bulky  parcel  she  was  carrying, 
and,  holding  it  under  his  arm,  walked  gravely 
by  her  side. 

"  I  thought  you  said  you  were  n't  an  ama- 
teur,'* she  said  suddenly. 

"Neither  am  I.     It's  my  livelihood." 

"Oh,  yes  —  between  you  and  starvation,  I 
suppose." 

"Just  so,"  said  Joyce. 

"  Could  n't  you  do  anything  else  ?  '* 

"  I  can't  get  anything  else  to  do." 

"  Then  how  did  you  manage  to  come  down 
in  the  world  ?  " 

"  How  do  you  know  I  have  come  down  ?  " 
asked  Joyce,  amused  at  the  catechism. 

"  Can't  I  see  you  were  up  once  ?  Miss 
Verrinder  would  n't  have  talked  to  you  like 
that  if  you  had  n't  belonged  to  her  set.  And 
I  have  heard  of  Yvonne  Latour.  She  does  n't 
make  friends  with  the  likes  of  McKay  and  me 
and  the  rest  of  us.  So  you  're  either  an  ama- 
teur come  for  the  practice  or  the  fiin  of  the 
thing,  or  —  " 

83 


Derelicts 

"  It  *s  hugely  funny,  I  assure  you,"  he  inter- 
rupted, "  to  live  in  a  back-street  bedroom  — 
*  lodgings  for  respectable  men  '  —  on  thirty 
shillings  a  week,  and  save  out  of  that." 

"  Well,  then  you  've  come  a  cropper." 

"  Really,  Miss  Stevens,"  he  replied  drily, 
"it  would  be  rather  embarrassing  to  have  to 
account  to  you  for  all  my  misdeeds." 

"  Oh,  I  don't  want  to  hear  'em.  Not  I — I  'm 
not  that  sort.  But  when  I  like  a  man,  I  like 
to  know  just  what  he  is.  That's  all.  Now 
my  father  was  a  butler,  and  my  mother  a  house- 
keeper, and  they  used  to  let  lodgings  in  Yar- 
mouth. And  they're  dead  now,  and  I  shift 
for  myself  Now  you  know  all  about  me, 
I  think    I  'd  better  carry  that  parcel." 

She  was  rather  defiant.  Joyce  could  not 
understand  her.  Surely  something  more  than 
inconsequent  bad  taste  had  prompted  her  to 
draw  this  distinction  between  their  respective 
origins.  But  he  was  too  self-centred  to  specu- 
late deeply  upon  feminine  problems.  He 
hugged  the  parcel  closer,  and  said  :  — 

"  Nonsense.  The  paper  is  torn  and  all  the 
stuff  will  drop  out." 

"  Oh,  then  I  must  carry  it,"  she  cried,  io 
quite  a  different  tone.   But  he  refused  gallantly. 

84 


The   Comic  Muse 

"  What 's  inside  it  ?  "  he  asked,  glad  to 
divert  the  conversation  into  less  perplexing 
channels. 

"It's  a  dress  —  the  one  I  wear  in  the  third 
act.  Well,  you  can  carry  it.  My  head 's 
splitting.     And   I  'm  ready   to  drop." 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  the  Parade. 
Their  way  lay  at  right  angles  through  the 
town.  It  was  a  gusty,  though  warm  night, 
and  the  cloud-racked  sky  and  sea  were  dimly 
visible. 

"Would  you  like  to  sit  down  for  a  few 
minutes  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Would  you  like  it  ?  " 

Her  white  face  was  turned  up  earnestly 
toward  his. 

"  It  might  do  you  good,"  he  replied. 

"  No,"  she  said  abruptly,  after  a  pause,  "  Let 
us  get  home." 

They  walked  together  in  silence.  Joyce's 
thoughts  were  far  away.  He  parted  from  her 
at  the  door  of  her  lodgings  and  went  on  slowly 
to  his  own. 

He  had  accustomed  himself  quickly  to  tht 
aomad  life  on  tour,  its  mechanical  regularity 
despite  the  weekly  change  of  scene.  Once, 
perhaps,  a   round  like   this  among  the  large 

85 


Derelicts 

provincial  towns  would  have  been  filled  with 
interests.  But  now  it  was  empty.  He  tried 
»n  vain  to  whet  his  dull  curiosity,  by  strolling 
through  the  streets  and  seeking  to  busy  his 
mind  with  the  industrial  or  municipal  aspects, 
the  art  treasures,  the  historical  monuments  of 
the  various  towns.  But  all  intellectual  keen- 
ness seemed  to  have  been  blunted  during  those 
deadening  years.  His  lonely  walks  were  at 
best  but  an  aimless  kilUng  of  time.  All  the 
towns  presented  to  him  the  same  essential 
features  :  one  busy  thoroughfare,  the  theatre 
with  its  flaring  bills,  and  a  poverty-stricken 
side-street  where  his  bedroom  was  situated. 
His  life  was  singularly  monotonous.  The 
long  hours  of  the  day,  given  up  to  lounging  in 
solitude,  or  reading  what  cheap  literature  his 
means  would  allow,  were  succeeded  by  the 
uninspiring,  almost  impersonal  work  at  the 
theatre.  All  that  was  required  of  him  was  to 
sing  his  parts  correctly,  and  to  execute  auto- 
matically the  "business"  in  which  he  had 
been  drilled.  It  was  painfully  easy.  But  he 
doubted  within  himself  whether  he  had  any 
dramatic  aptitude.  He  could  never  divest 
himself  of  the  self-conscious  idea  that  he 
looked  a  fool  in  theatrical   garb-     The  greer 

86 


The   Comic  Muse 

robe  and  pigtail  gave  him  the  sense  of  being 
a  spectacle  for  gods  and  men.  His  spirit  was 
too  crushed  to  look  upon  life  humorously. 
Still,  the  great  anxiety  was  lifted  from  his 
mind.  It  was  a  livelihood,  secured  for  an  in- 
definite time.  The  tour  was  booked  a  year 
r>iead,  and,  as  the  outset  proved  "  The 
Diamond  Door"  to  be  as  great  a  provincial 
success  as  it  had  been  a  London  one,  there 
seemed  no  reason  against  a  continuous  run  for 
three  or  four  years.  In  the  meantime,  he 
might  advance  a  step  or  two.  But  he  did  not 
care  to  contemplate  the  future.  He  was 
thankful  for  the  dull,  unruffled  present.  He 
was  working  again  among  honest  men,  reckoned 
as  one  himself.  Could  he  dare  hope  for 
more? 

At  times  he  found  himself  half  cynically 
content  with  his  lot.  At  others,  a  yearning 
rose  within  him  like  a  great  pain  to  be  able 
to  look  the  world  in  the  face  without  shrinking 
from  its  condemnation.  A  strange  idea  began 
to  work  in  his  brain  ;  to  win  back  by  some 
great  deed  of  sacrifice  his  self-honour  and 
respect.  But  he  knew  himself  to  be  a  dreamer 
of  dreams,  of  too  sorry  stuff  for  such  stern 
action      He  would  go  whither  the  wind  drifted 

87 


Derelicts 

aim.     Of  this  he  thought  as  he  walked  home 
after  parting  with  Annie  Stevens. 

He  met  her  the  next  morning  on  the  beach, 
a  long  way  from  the  town,  sitting,  a  lonely 
figure  upon  a  great  drain-pipe  rising  half 
above  the  sand.  She  was  resting  her  chin 
upon  her  fingers,  that  grasped  a  crumpled  copy 
of  "  Tit-Bits,"  and  she  was  looking  out  to  sea. 
Their  eight  weeks  of  pairing  on  the  stage  had 
brought  to  Joyce  a  feeling  of  companionship 
with  her,  which  he  did  not  have  as  regards 
the  others.  Besides,  those  who  were  not  either 
domestic  or  commonplace,  belonged  to  the 
flaxen-haired,  large-eyed,  tawdrily-dressed  type 
so  common  in  the  lower  ranks  of  the  profes- 
sion. Miss  Stevens  had  a  personality  which, 
though  unrefined,  was  at  least  her  own,  and  he 
honestly  liked  her. 

She  gave  a  little  start  when  she  was  aware 
of  his  presence,  and  a  quick  flush  came  into 
her  cheeks.  But  he  did  not  notice  it.  With 
a  pleasant  greeting  he  sat  down  by  her  side 
and  talked  of  current  trifles.  At  last  sh'' 
broke  out  suddenly. 

"  Oh,  don't  let 's  talk  '  shop.'  I  *m  sick  of 
the  piece  and  the  theatre  altogether." 

"  Oh,  come,  it  is  not  so  bad,"   said  Joyce, 
88 


The   Comic   Muse 

consolingly.  "  We  both  ought  to  be  playing 
good  parts,  and  having  rosier  prospects.  But 
things  might  be  very  much  worse." 

He  was  feeling  brighter  this  morning. 
Yvonne  had  written  him  a  long,  gossipy  letter, 
full  of  encouragement  and  her  own  uncon- 
scious charm,  thus  lifting  him  on  a  little  wave 
of  cheerfulness.  With  a  friend  like  Yvonne 
and  daily  bread,  he  ought  to  be  thankful.  As 
for  Miss  Stevens,  he  did  not  see  what  she  had 
particularly  to  grumble  at.  If  she  had  been 
beautiful  or  talented,  she  might  have  had  reason 
to  quarrel  with  her  lot. 

"  Besides,"  he  added  after  a  pause.     "  Look ' 
what  a  lovely  day  it  is  !  " 

"  So  you  think  we  ought  to  be  quite  happy  ?  " 

"  Moderately  so." 

She  was  in  a  taciturn  mood,  and  did  not 
reply,  but  turned  a  little  away  from  him  and 
began  to  dig  the  sand  with  the  toe  of  her  boot. 
Suddenly  she  said,  rather  petulantly  :  — 

"  I  wonder  if  you  could  ever  love  a  woman." 

He  had  grown  accustomed  to  her  late,  dis- 
crete methods  of  conversation,  so  the  question 
scarcely  surprised  him.  He  took  off  his  hat, 
so  as  to  enjoy  the  breeze,  and  rested  both 
hands  at  his  sides  on  the  drain-pipe. 

89 


Derelicts 

"  I  suppose  I  could  if  I  tried,"  he  said  care- 
lessly, "  but  I  'm  very  much  better  as  I  am. 
Why  do  you  ask  ?  " 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  thought  I  'd  say  some- 
thing. We  were  n't  having  exactly  a  rollicking 
time,  you  know." 

This  time  the  acerbity  in  her  tone  did  strike 
him.  Something  had  gone  wrong  with  her. 
He  bent  forward  so  as  to  catch  a  sight  of  her 
averted  face. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Miss  Stevens  ?  "  he 
asked  concernedly.  "  You  are  not  yourself. 
Could  I   be  of  any  service   to  you  ?  " 

She  did  not  reply.  Her  silence  seemed 
an  encouragement  to  press  his  sympathy.  It 
was  a  new  thing  to  be  of  help  to  a  human 
being.  He  put  his  fingers  on  her  sleeve  and 
added :  — 

"Tell  me." 

She  drew  away  her  arm  and  started  to  her 
feet. 

"  Yes,  I  will  tell  you.  I  *ve  been  making 
a  miserable  little  fool  of  myself.  Let 's  go 
back." 

Joyce  rose  and  walked  by  her  side. 

"  You  are  not  by  any  chance  embarrassed 
90 


The   Comic   Muse 

in  money  matters  ?  "  he  asked,  in  as  delicate 
a  tone  as   he  could. 

"  Money !  " 

She  looked  at  him  incredulously  for  a  mo- 
ment, then  broke  into  hysterical  laughter. 

"  Money  !  "  she  repeated.  "  Oh,  you  are 
too  comic  for  anything  1 " 


qi 


CHAPTER   VI 

MELPOMENE 

Two  weeks  passed  and  Joyce  found  himself 
in  Hull.  During  the  previous  week  Miss 
Stevens  had  lodged  quite  near  to  the  theatre, 
and  there  had  been  no  occasion  for  his  escort 
after  the  performance.  Besides,  she  had  main- 
tained a  distant  attitude  toward  him  which 
precluded  further  offer  of  sympathy  in  her 
affairs.  He  was  sorry  for  her;  she  seemed 
lonely,  like  himself,  and,  like  himself,  to  have 
some  inward  suffering  that  made  life  bitter. 
He  was  glad,  then,  to  find  at  Hull  that  they 
lodged  in  the  same  street,  some  distance  away 
from  the  Theatre  Royal,  so  that  he  could  pro- 
pose, as  a  natural  thing,  the  resumption  of  their 
former  habit.  She  had  acquiesced  readily  on 
the  Monday  night,  and  they  had  met  as  a 
matter  of  course  on  the  four  succeeding  even- 
ings. Her  late  aloofness  was  followed  by  a 
more  intimate  and  submissive  manner.     There 

92 


Melpomene 

were  no  more  defiant  utterances  and  fits  of 
petulance.  She  seemed  anxious  to  atone  for 
past  irritability,  and  Joyce,  vaguely  remem- 
bering a  spring-tide  cynicism  of  his,  that  one 
must  be  astonished  at  nothing  in  a  woman,  re- 
ceived these  advances  kindly,  and  looked  upon 
their  friendly  relations  as  consolidated. 

He  also  found  himself  progressing  in  favour 
with  the  rest  of  the  company.  Several  desul- 
tory chats  with  Miss  Verrinder,  the  friend  of 
Yvonne,  had  not  only  brightened  the  dul- 
ness  of  the  theatre  life,  but  also  given  him  a 
little  prestige  among  his  colleagues.  For  there 
is  a  good  deal  of  humanity  in  man,  including 
the  chorus  of  comic  opera.  So,  such  as  it 
was,  Joyce's  contentment  rose  to  high-level 
at  Hull.  He  did  not  couple  the  town  with 
Hell  and  Halifax  in  his  litany  of  supplication, 
but,  on  the  contrary,  found  it  a  not  unpleas- 
ant place,  which,  moreover,  was  in  process  of 
undergoing  a  rare  week  of  sunshine. 

His  favourite  spot  was  the  Corporation 
Pier,  with  its  double  deck  and  comfortable 
seats  and  view  across  the  Humber.  His  well- 
worn  clothes  were  in  harmony  with  its  frequent- 
ers, and  he  felt  more  at  ease  than  on  the  Parade 
of  a  seaside  resort  thronged  with  well-dressed 

93 


Derelicts 

people.  Here  he  brought  his  book  and  pipe, 
read  discursively,  watched  the  shipping,  fell 
into  talk  with  seafaring  men,  who  told  him 
the  tonnage  of  vessels  and  the  ports  from 
which  they  came.  Often  a  great  steamer 
performing  the  passenger  service  across  the 
North  Sea  would  come  into  the  docks  close 
by,  and  he  would  go  and  watch  her  land  her 
passengers  and  cargo.  The  hurry  and  move- 
ment were  welcome  to  him,  breaking,  as  they 
did,  the  lethargy  of  the  day.  If  the  docks 
were  quiet,  there  was  always  the  mild  excite- 
ment of  witnessing  the  arrival  of  the  Grimsby 
boat  at  the  pier. 

On  Saturday  morning  this  last  incident  had 
attracted  him  from  his  seat  on  the  lower  gallery 
to  the  little  knot  of  expectant  idlers  gathered 
by  the  railing.  The  steamer  was  within  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile,  the  churn  of  her  paddles  the  only 
break  visible  in  the  sluggish  water  of  the  river. 
He  stood  leaning  over,  pipe  in  mouth,  idly 
watching  her  draw  near.  When  she  was  moored 
alongside  and  the  gangway  pushed  on  to  the 
landing-stage  below,  he  moved  with  the  others 
to  the  head  of  the  slope  to  watch  the  pas- 
sengers ascend.  Why  he  should  particularly 
interest  himself  in   the  passage  of  humdrum 

94 


Melpomene 

labourers,  fishwives,  artisans,  and  young  women 
come  to  shop  in  Hull,  he  did  not  know.  He 
watched  them,  with  unspeculating  gaze,  pass 
hurrying  by,  until  suddenly  a  pair  of  evil  eyes 
looking  straight  into  his  own  made  him  start 
back  with  a  shiver  of  dismay. 

Escape  was  impossible;  in  another  moment 
the  man  was  by  his  side. 

"  Hullo,  old  pal !  Who  would  have  thought 
of  seeing  you  ?  " 

Joyce  did  not  take  the  dirty  hand  that  was 
proffered.  He  stuck  his  own  deep  in  his 
pockets,  frowned  at  the  man,  and  turned 
away.     But  the  other  followed. 

"  Look  here,  old  pal,  I  don't  call  this  a 
friendly  lead  —  bust  me  if  I  do.  You  might 
pass  the  time  of  day  with  a  bloke  —  especially 
as  it  is  n't  so  long  ago " 

The  man's  voice  was  loud,  the  pier  busy 
with  people.  The  air  seemed  to  Joyce  filled 
with  a  thousand  listening  ears.  His  blood 
tingled  with  shame.  He  faced  round  with 
an  angry  look. 

"  What  do  you  want  with  me  ? " 

"  Oh,  don't  take  on,  old  pal,"  replied  the 
other,  in  lower  tones.  "  I  ain't  going  to  give 
you  away  —  don't  you  fear.     It 's  only  pleas- 

95 


Derelicts 

«nt  to  meet  old  pals  again  —  in  better  circs. 
Ain't  it?" 

Joyce  had  always  loathed  him  —  a  flabby, 
^llow,  greasy-faced  fellow,  with  blear  eyes  and 
a  protruding  under-lip.  He  had  been  seh-^ 
tenced  for  a  foul  offence  against  decency. 
Joyce's  soul  used  to  revolt  at  the  sight  of 
him  as  they  sat  on  either  side  of  the  reeking 
tub  washing  up  the  cooking  utensils  in  the 
prison  kitchen.  The  hateful  stench  rose  again 
to  his  nostrils  now  and  turned  his  stomach. 

"  Can't  you  see  I  am  going  to  have  nothing 
to  do  with  you  ?  "  he  said  angrily. 

"  Come,  don't  be  hard  on  a  bloke  when 
he  's  down,"  replied  the  man.  "  It  ain't  every- 
one that  gets  on  their  legs  again  when  they 
comes  out.  I  've  been  out  two  months,  and  I 
have  n't  had  a  job  yet.  S'welp  me !  And 
there  's  the  wife  and  the  kids  starving.  Give 
us  a  couple  of  ouid  to  send  to  'em  and  make 
'em  happy  again.     Just  two  thick  uns." 

Joyce  stared  at  him,  breathless  with  indigna- 
tion at  his  impudence. 

"I'll  see  you  damned  first!"  he  cried 
fiercely. 

'*  Well,  make  it  ten  bob,  or  five,  or  tne 
price  of  a   drink,  old   pal.     You  can't   leave 

96 


Melpomene 

an  old  fellow-boarder  in  distress,  or  the  luck 
will  turn  agen  you." 

He  leered  up  into  Joyce's  face,  disclosing  a 
jagged  row  of  yellow  teeth.  But  Joyce  started 
forward  and  took  him  by  the  collar. 

"If  you  try  to  blackmail  me,"  said  he, 
pointing  to  a  policeman  on  the  quay,  "  I  '11 
give  you  in  charge.  Just  stay  where  you 
are  and  let  me  go  my  ways." 

He  released  him  and  marched  off.  But 
the  man  did  not  attempt  to  follow.  He 
slipped  into  a  seat  close  by  and  sang  out  sar- 
castically :  "  If  you  '11  leave  your  address,  I  '11 
send  you  a  mourning  card  when  the  kids  is 
dead!" 

Joyce  caught  the  words  as  he  hurried  down 
the  stairs.  When  he  had  crossed  the  quay 
to  the  hotels,  he  looked  up  at  the  pier,  and 
saw  the  man  leaning  over  with  a  grin  on  his 
face.  It  was  only  when  he  reached  his  lodging 
that  he  breathed  freely  again. 

What  he  had  long  expected  had  come  to 
pass  —  recognition  by  a  fellow-prisoner.  It  was 
a  horrible  experience.  It  might  occur  again 
and  again  indefinitely.  He  walked  agitated 
up  and  down  his  poorly-furnished  bedroom. 
Could  he  do  nothing  to  guard  against  such 
7  97 


Derelicts 

things  in  the  future  ?  If  he  could  only  dls- 
guise  himself!  Then  he  remembered  that  the 
moustache  which  might  have  served  him  as 
a  slight  protection  against  casual  glances  had 
been  sacrificed  to  theatrical  exigencies.  He 
ground  his  teeth  at  the  futility  of  the  idea. 
Ai)d  at  intervals  wrath  rose  up  hot  within  him 
at  the  man's  cool  impudence.  Two  pounds  — 
more  than  a  week's  salary  —  to  be  thrown 
away  on  swine  like  that !  He  laughed  savagely 
at  the  thought. 

He  grew  calm  after  a  time,  lay  down  on 
his  bed  and  opened  a  book.  But  the  face  of 
the  man,  bringing  with  it  scenes  of  a  past  in 
which  they  had  been  associated  came  between 
his  eyes  and  the  page. 

"Anyhow,  it's  over,"  he  exclaimed  at  last, 
with  a  determined  effort  to  banish  the  memo- 
ries. "  And,  thatnk  God,  it 's  Saturday,  and  I 
shall  be  in  Leeds  to-morrow." 

To  avoid  the  chance  of  meeting  him  in  the 
streets,  however,  he  stayed  at  home  all  day, 
sending  round  a  note  of  excuse  on  the  score 
of  seediness  to  Miss  Stevens,  with  whom  he 
had  arranged  to  take  an  afternoon  stroll.  On 
Ms  way  to  the  theatre  he  caught  sight  of  tht 
man  standing  by  a  gas-lamp  at  a  street-corner 

98 


Melpomene 

on  the  other  side  of  the  way.  He  hurried  on, 
glad  at  his  escape,  for  the  glance  of  the  man's 
eyes  resting  upon  him  was  abhorrent. 

For  the  first  time  since  he  had  started  on 
the  tour  the  rough  companionship  of  the  dress- 
ing-room was  a  comfort  and  deHght.  Here 
were  kindly  words,  welcoming  faces,  the  pleas- 
ant familiarity  of  common  avocation.  He 
forgot  the  heat,  and  the  crush,  and  the  tom- 
fool aspect  the  dressing  had  always  presented. 
The  place  was  home-like,  familiar,  sheltering. 
His  costume,  as  he  took  it  down  from  the  peg, 
seemed  like  an  old  friend.  The  jolly  voices 
of  his  companions  rang  gratefully  in  his  ears. 
The  disgust  of  the  day  faded  into  the  memory 
of  a  nightmare.  This  was  a  reality  —  this 
hearty  good-fellowship  with  uncontaminated 
men. 

When  he  went  out  with  them  on  to  the 
stage,  before  the  curtain  rose,  and  met  the 
ladies  of  the  chorus,  he  greeted  those  that  he 
liked  with  a  newer  sense  of  friendliness.  Until 
then  he  had  never  been  aware  how  pleasant  it 
was  to  have  Annie  Stevens's  head  resting  on  his 
knee.  He  thanked  God  he  was  a  criminal  no 
longer  —  not  as  that  other  man  was.  Certainly 
Phariseeism  is  justifiable  at  times. 

99 


Derelicts 

He  was  very  kind  to  Miss  Stevens  all  the 
Evening  during  the  waits,  when  they  happened 
to  be  together.  His  apologies  for  having  to 
put  off  their  engagement  met  with  her  full 
acceptance.  She  was  solicitous  as  to  his  health 
—  asked  him  in  her  downright  fashion  whether 
he  ate  enough. 

"  You  are  a  gentleman,  you  know,  and  not 
accustomed  to  poor  people's  ways  and  their 
privations." 

"  My  dear,"  he  replied,  dropping  for  the 
first  time  into  the  old  professional's  mode  of 
address.  "  I  've  gone  through  privations  in  my 
life  tnat  you  have  never  dreamed  of.  This  is 
clover  —  knee-deep." 

And  he  believed  it ;  thought,  too,  what  a 
fool  he  had  been  to  grumble  at  this  honest, 
pleasant  theatrical  life.  The  reaction  had 
rather  excited  him. 

"  I  look  upon  myself  as  jolly  well  off  here," 
he  said.  "  And  I  eat  like  an  ox,  I  assure 
you.  Do  you  know,  it's  very  good  of  you 
to  take  an  interest  in  me  ? " 

"  Do  you  think  so  ?  '*  said  the  girl,  with  a 
little  laugh,  and  turning  away  her  head. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  act  a  fresh  pleasure 
awaited  him.     It  was  a  night  of  surprising  sen- 

lOO 


Melpomene 


sations.  The  stage-manager  called  him  into 
his  room. 

"  Walker  has  been  telegraphed  for  —  wife 
very  ill  —  and  he  won't  be  able  to  play  on 
Monday.  Do  you  think  you  could  play  his 
part  till  he  comes  back  ?  " 

"  Rather  !  "  said  Joyce,  delighted. 

"  You  are  the  only  one  of  the  crowd  that 
can  sing  worth  a  cent,"  said  the  stage-manager 
with  a  seasonable  mixture  of  profanity.  **  I  *1I 
pull  you  through.  Perhaps  he  's  not  coming 
back  at  all.  One  never  knows.  If  he  does  n't 
and  you  go  all  right,  there  's  no  reason  why 
you  should  n't  stick  to  it." 

Walker  spoke  exactly  four  lines,  sang  once 
in  a  quartette  and  had  a  couplet  solo.  Other- 
wise he  made  himself  useful  in  the  chorus. 
But  it  was  a  part,  his  name  was  down  in  the 
bill.  The  value  of  the  step,  moral,  pecuniary 
and  professional  was  considerable.  Joyce  felt 
that  his  luck  had  turned  at  last.  Here  was  the 
gate  into  the  profession  proper  open  to  him. 

The  news  soon  spread  through  the  company. 
A  "  call  "  for  rehearsal  on  Monday  morning 
for  the  chorus  and  those  of  the  principals  con- 
cerned in  the  change  was  posted  up.  He  felt 
himself  a  person  of  some  importance.     McKay 

lOI 


Derelicts 

congratulated  him ;  and  Blake,  although  he 
said,  "  You  swells  get  all  the  fat,"  spoke  by  no 
means  enviously.  The  others  cracked  jokes 
and  suggested  drinks  all  round,  which,  being 
sent  for  by  Joyce,  were  consumed  in  the  dress- 
ing-room. Annie  Stevens  squeezed  his  hand, 
during  their  dance  together,  and  whispered  a 
word  of  pleasure.  He  had  no  idea  that  so 
infinitesimal  a  success  could  have  masqueraded 
as  such  a  triumph.  He  longed  to  get  back  to 
his  room  to  write  it  all  to  Yvonne. 

At  the  stage-door,  after  the  performance,  he 
met  Annie  Stevens,  who  had  hurried  through 
her  dressing. 

"  I  'm  glad  for  your  sake,  but  I  'm  sorry  for 
my  own,"  she  said,  after  they  had  walked  a 
few  steps. 

"  Why,  what  difference  can  it  make  to  you  ?  '* 
asked  Joyce  laughing. 

"  I  shall  have  to  play  and  sing  with  some- 
body else." 

"  True.  I  was  forgetting.  Yes,  it  will 
seem  funny.      I  shall  miss  you  too." 

"  I  don't  believe  you  care  one  bit,"  said  the 
girl. 

To  acquiesce  would  have  been  rude.  He 
answered  her  with  vague  regrets.     She  inter- 

102 


Melpomene 

rupted  him  with  a  laugh  in  which  was  the 
faintest  note  of  scorn. 

"  Oh,  you  're  very  glad  to  get  rid  of  me,  and 
che  stupid  kissing  and  everything.  You  won't 
have  to  give  any  one  a  Chinese  kiss  now.  And 
they  were  very  Chinese,  you  know." 

"  An  English  kiss  would  have  been  out  of 
the  picture,"  said  Joyce. 

"  We  're  not  in  the  picture  now,"  she  said 
softly. 

Joyce  felt  that  he  was  doing  something  very 
foolish,  perhaps  dangerous.  He  had  never 
had  the  remotest  fancy  for  allowing  his  com- 
panionship with  her  to  degenerate  into  a  flirta- 
tion. But  what  could  he  do  ?  He  bent  down 
and  kissed  her. 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  for  a  few  yards, 
which  she  broke  at  last  in  her  irrelevant  way. 

"  I  should  so  like  a  glass  of  port  wine  to- 
night." 

"  So  should  I,"  said  Joyce,  cheerfully.  "  Or 
something  like  it.  We  '11  go  into  the  Crown 
yonder." 

Two   or  three    times  before  they   had    had 

a  glass  together  on  their  way  home.    To-night, 

therefore,  the  suggestion  seemed  natural.    They 

entered  the   private   bar   of  the  public-house, 

103 


Derelicts 

and  Joyce  ordered  the  liquors.  Only  one 
young  man  was  there,  reading  a  sporting  paper 
on  a  high  stool.  It  was  a  quiet  place,  with  the 
view  beyond  the  counter  down  the  bar  cut  of? 
by  a  ground-glass  screen,  through  a  low  space 
under  which  the  customers  were  served. 

Joyce  pushed  the  port  wine  smilingly  to 
Miss  Stevens,  and,  with  his  back  to  the  door, 
was  pouring  some  water  into  his  whisky,  when 
a  voicfc  sounded  in  his  ear,  causing  him  to  start 
violently  and  flood  the  counter. 

*  I  say,  old  pal,  are  you  goin'  to  help  a  poor 
feller?" 

The  man  was  standing  behind  him,  the  leer 
upon  his  greasy  face.  Joyce  had  been  bliss- 
fully unaware  that  he  had  dogged  his  steps 
from  that  street  corner  to  the  stage-door  of  the 
theatre,  and  from  the  stage-door  hither.  The 
sight  of  him  was  a  stroke  of  cold  terror. 

"  Go  away.  I  '11  give  you  in  charge,"  he 
stammered,  losing  his  head  for  the  moment. 

Annie  Stevens  clutched  his  arm. 

"  Who  is  this  beastly  man  ?  "  she  said. 

**  Only  an  old  pal,  miss,"  said  the  man, 
edging  towards  the  door.  "  We  was  in  quod 
many  months  together,  and  now  he  won't  give 
me  *arf  a  crown  to  keep  me  from  starving." 

104 


Melpomene 

•*  By  God !  "  cried  Joyce,  making  a  sudden 
dash  at  him. 

But  the  man  was  too  quick ;  he  had  secured 
his  retreat,  and  when  Joyce  reached  the  pave- 
ment —  the  house  was  at  a  corner  of  cross 
roads  —  he  could  not  catch  the  fall  of  his  foot- 
steps. The  man  had  vanished  into  the  night, 
and  pursuit  was  hopeless.  It  had  all  passed 
with  the  sudden  unexpectedness  of  a  dream. 
Joyce  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead  and  tried 
to  think.  He  could  scarcely  reahse  exactly 
what  had  happened.  He  seemed  to  be  en- 
veloped with  tiny  tingling  waves  that  drew  his 
skin  tight  like  a  drum  for  his  heart  to  beat 
against.  He  turned,  and  saw  Annie  Stevens 
standing  by  his  side,  in  the  light  of  the  public- 
house,  with  anger  on  her  face. 

"  What  have  you  got  to  say  for  yourself  ?  '* 
she  asked  brusquely. 

"  Do  you  believe  that  man  ?  "  said  Joyce,  the 
words  coming  painfully. 

Their  lack  of  conviction  damned  him.  The 
girl  drew  back  a  step,  and  looked  at  him  with 
revulsion  in  her  eyes. 

"  You  can't  deny  it !  I  see  that  you  can't. 
You  *ve  just  come  out  of  prison." 

If  the  world  had  been  at  his  feet  he  could 

IDS 


Derelicts 

not  have  lied  convincingly  at  that  moment. 
He  could  only  stare  at  her  haggardly  and  rack 
his  brains  for  words  that  would  not  come. 
She  moved  away  instinctively  from  the  public 
glare  and  turned  down  the  dark  street  that  led 
toward  their  destination. 

"  It 's  a  lie,"  he  said  desperately,  striding  t» 
her  side. 

"  No  it  is  n't.  It 's  truth.  I  read  it  on 
your  face.  That 's  why  you  've  come  down 
in  the  world  —  that 's  why  you  live  by  your- 
self—  that 's  why  you  did  n't  dare  come  out 
this  afternoon  —  and  that 's  where  you  've 
known  all  those  privations  I  never  dreamed 
of     It 's  no  good  telling  lies." 

"  Well,  it 's  true,"  said  Joyce.     "  And  I  've 
paid  the  penalty  for  my  folly  ten  times  ovrr 
Forget  all  this,  Annie,  for  God's  sake." 

"  Go  away  ! "  she  cried,  walking  faster.  "  i 
don't  want  to  see  you  again.  Oh,  to  think  of 
it  makes  me  sick  !     Go  away,  do  !  " 

But  he  followed  her  imploringly.  He  was 
at  her  mercy. 

"  I  don't  care  what  you  think  of  me,"  he 
said.  "  I  will  keep  out  of  your  way  as  much 
as  you  like.  Only,  a  word  from  you  would 
ruin  me.     Keep  my  story  secret,  like  an  hon- 

io6 


Melp 


omene 


Durable   woman.       I    have   done    nothing    to 

>» 
you. 

"  Yes,  you  have  ! "  she  cried,  stopping  short 
and  facing  him.  "  You  have  dared  to  kiss  me. 
Oh  —  a  pretty  fine  gentleman  you  are — with 
your  patronising  superior  ways  —  and  I  think- 
ing myself  an  ignorant,  common  girl,  not  good 
enough  for  you !  What  were  you  ?  A  pick- 
pocket ?  " 

"  You  abuse  me  as  if  I  were  one,"  said 
Joyce,  bitterly.  "  Good-night,  Miss  Stevens. 
I  shall  not  molest  you  any  further."  He 
motioned  to  her  with  his  hand  to  pass  on  in 
front.  She  regarded  him  for  a  moment  stonily, 
and  then,  with  a  short  exclamation  of  disgust, 
swung  round  sharply  and  proceeded  at  a 
hurried  pace  down  the  dismal,  ill-lighted  street. 
Joyce  watched  her  until  she  was  swallowed 
up  in  the  darkness,  and  had  obtained  sufficient 
start  for  him  to  follow  in  her  footsteps  without 
fear  of  overtaking  her. 

But  as  he  walked  along,  the  dread  of  her 
indignation  seized  him.  If  only  he  could  say 
another  word  to  her  before  the  morning,  he 
might  secure  her  pity  and  her  silence.  The 
idea  grew  more  and  more  insistent,  until  he 
could  bear  it  no  longer.  He  started  off  at 
107 


Derelicts 

a  run,  at  first  on  the  pavement  of  the  quiet 
side  street,  and  then  in  the  roadway  by  the 
kerb  of  the  busier  thoroughfare  into  which 
it  led,  and  regardless  of  jostling  and  oaths,  con- 
tinued his  way,  until  he  succeeded  in  catching 
her  up  just  as  she  was  inserting  the  latchkey 
into  her  door. 

"  Annie,"  he  cried,  his  chest  heaving  pain- 
fully from  the  exertion  of  running.  "  Promise 
me  you  won't  breathe  a  word  of  this  to  any 
one. 

She  let  herself  in  deliberately  and  stood  in 
the  dark  passage. 

"  I  '11  promise  nothing.  I  never  want  to  set 
my  eyes  on  you  again  !  " 

And  then  she  slammed  the  door  in  his  face. 

He  turned  away  sick  at  heart,  and  went  to  his 
own  lodging.  Resentment  at  her  coarse  anger, 
and  speculation  as  to  the  motives  of  the  sudden 
change  from  friendliness  to  hatred  were  things 
that  did  not  come  to  him  till  afterwards.  Suffi- 
cient for  the  night  was  the  despair  of  the  sleep- 
less hours,  the  dread  of  the  girl's  tongue,  and  the 
anguish  of  tottering  hopes.  He  did  not  write 
to  Yvonne.  The  little  triumph  of  the  evening 
seemed  like  a  gay  pagoda  struck  by  lightning. 

io8_,. 


CHAPTER   VII 

A     FORLORN     HOPE 

At  the  railway  station  the  next  afternoon  he 
found  most  of  the  company  already  assembled 
on  the  platform.  Curious  glances  were  cast 
upon  him  as  he  appeared  ;  there  were  nudgings 
and  whisperings ;  some  giggling  on  the  part  of 
the  chorus  girls  standing  round  Annie  Stevens, 
who  was  looking  paler  and  more  defiant  than 
usual.  A  group  of  his  colleagues  melted  away 
at  his  approach.  He  saw  at  once  what  had 
happened.  The  fears  that  had  haunted  him 
all  the  night  and  all  that  day  were  realised. 
He  felt  his  face  and  lips  grow  white,  and  his 
limbs  trembled.  With  an  instinctive  remnant 
of  self-assertion,  he  went  up  to  Blake,  who  was 
standing  by  one  of  the  reserved  carriages.  It 
seemed  a  long  time  before  he  could  speak.  At 
last  he  asked  him  stupidly  at  what  time  the 
train  started, 

"  Four  forty,"  said  Blake,  curtly. 

"  And  when  do  we  get  to  Leeds  ?  ** 
109 


Derelicts 

"  How  the  devil  should  I  know  ?  If  you 
want  to  know,  there 's  the  guard.     Ask  him." 

With  which  he  moved  away  and  joined  two 
or  three  others  a  few  steps  off.  Joyce  felt  too 
sick  with  misery  to  resent  the  rudeness.  He 
walked  a  short  distance  along  the  train,  and 
seeing  one  of  his  colleagues  in  a  compartment, 
concluded  that  it  was  reserved  for  the  chorus- 
men  and  crept  into  the  far  corner,  where  he  sat 
down,  holding  a  newspaper  before  his  face. 

The  compartment  filled  and  the  train  started. 
At  first  there  was  a  general  constraint  in  the 
talk.  Then  a  game  at  nap  was  instituted ; 
but  no  one  spoke  to  Joyce.  At  Selby  there 
was  over  an  hour's  wait.  With  a  feeling  that 
he  must  be  alone  at  any  cost,  he  rushed  out  of 
the  station,  and,  avoiding  the  town,  wandered 
aimlessly  through  lanes  and  fields  until  it  was 
time  to  return.  He  was  too  dazed  and  over- 
whelmed by  this  sudden  blow  to  think  coher- 
ently. Now  it  was  the  girl's  deliberate  cruelty 
that  passed  his  comprehension  ;  now  the  sick- 
ening shame  at  being  known  in  his  true  colours 
to  a  whole  society  burned  into  his  flesh.  Only 
one  thoughj  stood  out  from  the  rest  in  lurid 
clearness  —  the  impossibility  of  his  continuing 
the  tour.      Even  if  the  management  took  no 

no 


A   Forlorn    Hope 

notice  of  the  discovery,  he  felt  he  would  rather 
starve  to  death  in  a  hole  than  live  through  that 
hell  of  daily  aversion  and  contempt.  To  return 
to  the  company  and  travel  with  them  as  far  as 
Leeds  was  pain  enough.  He  would  face  that, 
however,  and  then  — 

It  was  gathering  dusk  when  he  arrived  at  the 
station,  just  in  time  to  see  the  guard  about  to 
wave  the  green  flag.  The  handle  of  the  com- 
partment was  in  his  grasp  when  he  heard 
McKay  say :  — 

"  Well,  because  a  fellow 's  happened  to  be  In 
quod,  that  does  n't  mean  he  's  likely  to  sneak 
your  watches  out  of  the  dressing-room  ! " 

He  opened  the  door  and  entered  amid  a 
dead  silence,  which  lasted,  with  few  interrup- 
tions, all  the  rest  of  the  journey.  Joyce  looked 
round  at  his  seven  companions,  with  an  awful 
sense  of  isolation.  Only  four-and-twenty  hours 
before  he  had  loved  them  for  their  warm  good- 
fellowship.  He  was  wrung  with  the  pity  of  it. 
McKay's  words  still  sounded  in  his  ear.  They 
were  horrible  enough,  but  it  was  evident  they 
were  meant  in  his  defence.  Once  he  met  his 
glance,  and  read  in  it  a  signal  of  kind  intent. 
But  the  others  steadily  looked  another  way 
when  his  eye  fell  upon  them. 
Ill 


Derelicts 

When  they  left  the  train  at  Leeds,  McKay 
touched  him  on  the  shoulder  and  drew  him 
apart  from  the  hurrying  stream  of  passengers 
and  porters. 

"What's  all  this  yarn  that  Annie  Stevens 
Uas  been  telling  us  ? " 

"  Oh,  it 's  true  enough,'*  replied  Joyce, 
wearily. 

"  Tne  damned  little  hell-cat,'*  said  McKay. 
"  I  told  you  to  keep  clear  of  women." 

"  It  was  bound  to  come  out.  One  of  you 
fellows  might  just  as  well  have  been  with  me  in 
the  pub  last  night." 

"  Do  you  think  a  man  would  have  given 
you  away  like  this  ? "  asked  McKay,  with 
great  scorn. 

"  I  've  come  to  the  conclusion  that  any- 
thing's  possible  in  this  infernal  world,"  said 
Joyce,  bitterly.  "  I  suppose  the  whole  crowd 
are  against  me." 

"  Well,  there  is  a  bit  of  feeling,  certainly," 
replied  McKay,  in  an  embarrassed  tone. 
"  And  maybe  it  won't  be  very  pleasant  for 
you.  They  all  talk  as  if  they  were  plaster 
of  Paris  saints,  —  and,  dash  it  all  —  they  made 
me  sick ;  so  I  thought  I  'd  come  and  say  I  'd 
stand  by  you." 

112 


A   Forlorn   Hope 

**  Thank  you,  McKay,"  said  Joyce,  touched 
"  You  are  a  good  sort.  But  I  sha'n't  ask  you. 
I  am  not  going  on  with  the  tour." 

"  I  think  you  're  just  as  well  out  of  it,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,"  said  McKay.  Then  his  anger 
against  Annie  Stevens  broke  out  again  in  an 
unequivocal  epithet, 

«  The  little ,"  he  said. 

"  I  suppose  it  is  horrible  in  a  woman's  eyes," 
said  Joyce,  moving  with  McKay  toward  the 
crowd  round  the  luggage-van.  "  But  I  can't 
see  why  she  should  hate  me  like  this,  all  of  a 
sudden,  and  wish  to  ruin  me." 

"  Can't  you  ?     It 's  pretty  plain." 

"  No,"  said  Joyce.  "  We  have  always  been 
the  best  of  friends." 

"  Friends  ?  You  don't  mean  to  say  you 
did  n't  know  she  was  gone  on  you  —  clean 
gone,  all  ofF  her  chump  ?  No  one  liked  to 
chaff  you  about  it,  because  you  have  an  infer- 
nal sarcastic  way  of  scoring  off  fellows.  But, 
Gawd  !  The  way  she  used  to  look  at  you  was 
enough  to  make  a  man  sick  ! " 

"  Do  you -mean  she  was  in  love  with  me  ?  " 
asked  Joyce,  falteringly,  as  the  whole  situation 
of  affairs,  past  and  present,  began  to  dawn  upon 
him. 

*  113 


Derelicts 

"  Well,  rather,"  said  McKay,  with  a  chuckle. 
"  What  do  you  think  ?  " 

Several  of  the  company  were  still  around 
the  pile  of  luggage  by  the  van,  claiming  their 
things  and  waiting  for  porters.  Standing  on 
one  side  was  Annie  Stevens,  and,  as  it  hap- 
pened, Joyce  recognised  his  Gladstone  bag 
lying  at  her  feet.  He  went  and  picked  it 
up,  and  was  going  off  silently  with  it,  when 
he  felt  her  touch  on  his  arm.  Dim  as  the 
light  was,  he  could  see  that  her  face  was 
haggard  and  drawn.  She  met  his  stern  gaze 
beseechingly. 

"  For  God's  sake,  forgive  me,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"  You  have  played  too  much  havoc  with  my 
life,"  replied  Joyce  coldly. 

"  I  shall  kill  myself,"  said  the  girl. 

"  Some  people  are  better  dead,"  said  Joyce, 
turning  away,  bag  in  hand. 

On  the  platform  beyond  the  barriers  he  met 
McKay  again. 

"Good-bye,  McKay,"  he  said.  "1  have 
only  two  friends  in  the  world  who  know  my 
story,  and  you  are  one." 

"  Good-bye,  old  man,"  said  McKay.  "  Bet- 
ter luck  next  time." 

114 


A   Forlorn   Hope 

They  shook  hands  and  parted,  McKay  to 
join  his  friend  Blake  at  the  lodgings  they  had 
secured  already,  Joyce  to  put  up  for  the  night 
at  the  first  cheap  hotel  he  could  find. 

The  next  day  he  was  in  London  again,  in 
his  old  room  in  Pimlico  —  a  broken-hearted, 
broken-spirited  man.  For  two  days  he  re- 
mained in  a  state  of  stupid  misery,  yearning 
for  the  life  he  had  just  abandoned ;  tortured, 
too,  by  reproaches  for  his  cowardice.  Why 
had  he  not  faced  the  ignominy,  and  tried  to 
live  it  down  ?  Then  the  conviction  of  the 
hopelessness  of  the  attempt  was  forced  upon 
him.  Even  if  he  had  continued  in  the  pro- 
fession, his  name  would  soon  have  been  known 
throughout  it  as  the  ex-convict,  —  and  he  had 
been  in  it  long  enough  to  perceive  how  narrow 
the  theatrical  circle  is,  —  and  all  hope  of  ad- 
vancement would  have  been  worse  than  futile. 
On  the  third  day  he  went  to  see  Yvonne,  but 
she  had  just  gone  out  of  town.  The  porter 
at  the  flat  did  not  know  how  long  she  would 
be  away.  She  was  at  Fulminster.  Her  let- 
ters were  forwarded  there.  So  Joyce  wrote 
her  a  short  note,  explaining  his  situation, 
and  set  himself  to  wait  patiently  for  her 
coming. 

IIS 


Derelicts 

But  on  that  evening,  out  of  sheer  weariness 
and  longing  for  human  companionship,  he 
turned  into  his  old  haunt,  the  billiard-room 
in  Westminster.  It  seemed  just  the  same 
as  on  the  last  evening  he  had  been  there. 
The  dccupants  of  the  divan  might  never  have 
moved  from  that  night  to  this.  His  appear- 
ance was  greeted  with  incurious,  uninterested 
nods.  The  only  one  that  offered  his  hand  was 
Noakes,  who  was  sitting  at  the  end,  still  in  his 
Chesterfield  overcoat  and  old  curly  silk  hat, 
but  looking  more  woe-begone  and  pallid  than 
ever.  There  was  a  touch  of  pain,  too,  in  his 
usually  expressionless  pale-blue  eyes.  Joyce 
took  his  seat  next  to  him  and  bent  for- 
ward, elbows  on  knees  and  chin  resting  in 
his  hands. 

"  You  have  been  absent  from  town  ?  "  asked 
Noakes,  in  his  precise,  toneless  way. 

Joyce  nodded,  with  a  murmur  of  assent. 

**  I,  too,  have  not  been  here  lately." 

"  Press  of  literary  work  ?  **  asked  Joyce, 
without  looking  up. 

The  other  did  not  notice  the  shade  of  sar- 
casm. He  passed  his  hand  across  his  eyes  and 
sighed. 

"  I  have  given  It  up." 
ii6 


A  Forlorn  Hope 


•*  Have  you  come  into  a  fortune  ?  " 

•*  No.  I  have  had  the  deadliest  misfortune 
that  can  befall  a  man." 

Something  genuinely  tragic  in  his  tone  made 
Joyce  start  up  from  his  dejected  attitude  and 
look  at  his  neighbour. 

**  I  beg  your  pardon,'*  he  said.  "  I  did  not 
know." 

"  Of  course  not ;  no  one  does.  At  least,  no 
one  I  can  repose  any  confidence  in." 

There  was  an  air  of  dignity  in  this  oddly 
attired  figure,  with  the  ludicrous  silk  hat  above 
the  black  mutton-chop  whiskers  and  bushy 
white  hair,  and  yet  a  mute  appeal  for  sym- 
pathy which  Joyce  could  not  but  perceive. 

"  I,  too,  have  been  hard  hit  lately,"  he  said, 
in  a  low  voice. 

"  Ah,  not  like  me,"  said  the  other,  turning 
round  in  his  seat,  so  that  his  words  should 
reach  only  Joyce's  ear.  "  Until  three  weeks 
ago  I  had  a  wife  and  child.  No  man  ever 
Joved  as  I  did.  I  worked  for  them  till  my 
brain  almost  gave  way  —  fifteen  hours  a  day, 
week  after  week,  starved  myself  for  them, 
denied  myself  the  clothes  on  my  back.  Now 
I  have  them  no  longer.  Life  is  valueless  to 
me." 

"7 


Derelicts 

"  Are  they  —  dead  ?  "  asked  Joyce. 

**  No.  Gone  off  with  the  lodger  on  the 
first  floor,"  rephed  Noakes,  solemnly. 

Joyce  remained  silent.  What  could  he  say  ? 
He  looked  sympathetic.  Noakes  blew  his 
nose  in  a  dirty  piece  of  calico  with  frayed  edges 
that  courtesy  called  a  pocket-handkerchief,  and 
continued  :  — 

"  So  my  life  is  wrecked.  My  imagination 
is  darkened  and  I  can  write  no  more.  I  have 
given  up  my  literary  ambitions.  It  is  not 
worth  while  writing  penny  bloods  at  half  a 
crown  a  thousand  for  one's  own  support." 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  then  ?  "  asked 
Joyce,  interested  in  the  quaint  creature. 

"  I  am  going  abroad.  I  have  come  here 
perhaps  for  the  last  time.  On  the  day  after 
to-morrow  I  sail  for  South  Africa." 

Was  it  a  sudden  inspiration  ?  Was  it  the 
coming  to  a  head  of  vague  resolutions,  despairs, 
workings,  the  final  word  of  a  destiny  driving 
him  from  England  ?  Was  it  a  sudden  sense  of 
protecting  brotherhood  towards  this  forlorn, 
tragic  scarecrow  of  a  man  ?  Joyce  never  knew. 
Possibly  it  was  all  bursting  upon  his  soul 
at  once.  Springing  to  his  feety  he  held  out 
his  hand  to  Noakes. 

ii8 


A  Forlorn   Hope 

"  By  all  that 's  holy,  I  '11  come  with  you  !  " 
he  cried,  in  a  strange  voice. 

The  other,  after  some  hesitation,  took  his 
hand  and  looked  at  him  pathetically. 

"  Are  you  in  earnest  ?  " 

"  In  dead  earnest." 

"  I  am  going  in  the  very  cheapest  possible 
manner." 

"So  am  I." 

"  I  am  going,  with  a  few  pounds  1  have 
scraped  together,  to  try  my  luck." 

"  The  same  with  me.  It  can't  be  worse 
than  England ;  starvation  is  certain  here. 
Come,  say,  honour  bright  —  will  you  be  glad 
of  me  as  a  companion  —  as  a  friend  if  you 
like  ?  I  am  a  lonely  bit  of  driftwood  like 
yourself." 

Then  Noakes  rose  to  his  feet  and  this 
time  squeezed  Joyce's  hand  and  his  pale  eyes 
glistened. 

"  I  '11  swear  to  be  your  friend  in  peace  and 
in  danger,"  he  said,  in  his  quaint  phraseology. 
"  And  I  thank  the  God  of  all  mercies  for  send- 
ing you  to  me  in  my  hour  of  need." 

"  All  right,"  said  Joyce.  "  And  now  let  us 
have  some  whisky,  and  talk  over  details." 

And  so,  in  that  dingy  billiard-room,  un- 
119 


Derelicts 

known  to  the  moulting  Bohemians  huddled  up 
in  somnolent  attitudes  close  by  on  the  divan, 
and  unheeded  by  the  shirt-sleeved  men  passing 
around  the  table  intent  on  their  game,  was 
struck  the  strangest  bargain  of  a  friendship 
ever  made  between  two  outcast  men  ;  a  friend- 
ship that  was  to  last  through  want  and  sickness 
and  despair  and  hope,  and  to  leave  behind  it 
the  ineJfFaceable  stamp  of  nobler  feeling. 

But  at  first  there  was  much  admixture  of 
cynicism  on  Joyce's  side.  He  laughed  aloud, 
in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart,  at  the  object  he 
had  taken  for  his  bosom  friend.  It  was  only 
later,  when  he  learned  the  patient,  dog-like 
devotion  of  the  man,  that  he  felt  humbled  and 
ashamed  at  these  beginnings. 

With  a  draft  on  a  Cape  Town  bank  for  the 
remainder  of  his  capital,  and  a  last  regretful 
letter  from  Yvonne  in  his  pocket,  he  left  South- 
ampton. And  as  they  steamed  down  Channel, 
in  the  mizzling  rain  of  a  grey  November  day, 
he  leaned  over  the  taffrail  and  stared  at  the 
land  of  his  brilliant  hopes,  his  crime,  his  pun- 
ishment, his  struggles  and  his  dishonour,  with 
a  man's  agony  of  unshed  tears. 

He  was  going  to  begin  life  anew  in  a  strange 
vndesired  country ;  hopeless,  aimless,  friendless 

1 20 


A  Forlorn  Hope 

save  for  that  useless  creature  who  was  pacing 
up  and  down  the  deck  behind  him,  still  in  his 
ridiculous  headgear.  He  had  made  no  plans. 
The  future  to  him  when  he  should  land  at 
Cape  Town  was  as  unknown  —  as  it  is  to  any 
of  the  sons  of  men,  did  we  but  realise  it. 


121 


CHAPTER  VIII 

THE    canon's    angel 

While  Joyce  was  straining  his  eyes  through 
the  darkness  for  the  last  sight  of  land  and 
eating  out  his  heart  in  bitter  regrets,  Yvonne 
was  busily  engaged  at  Fulminster  in  rehearsing 
for  the  next  day's  concert.  She  had  spent  four 
days  at  Fulminster,  the  guest  of  Mrs.  Win- 
stanley,  and  found  herself  somewhat  lost  among 
the  very  decorous  society  of  which  Canon 
Chisely  was  a  leading  member.  And  while  she 
was  scanning  the  social  heavens  in  half  pathetic 
search  of  her  bearings,  Joyce's  letters  had  ar- 
rived, with  their  tidings  of  catastrophe  and 
exile.  So,  while  there  was  a  smile  on  her  lip 
for  the  Canon  and  his  friends,  there  was  a  tear 
in  her  eye  for  Joyce.  His  humiliation  and 
her  failure  as  fairy  godmother  brought  her  a 
pang  of  disappointment.  She  felt  very  ten- 
derly towards  Joyce.  In  her  imagination,  too, 
Africa  was  a  dreadful  place,  made  up  of  deserts, 
lionSj  and  ferocious  negroes  in  a  state  of  nudity. 

122 


The  Canon  *s  Angel 

If  she  had  seen  him  before  he  started,  she 
might  have  dissuaded  him  from  encountering 
such  discomforts.  She  thought  of  this  tearfully 
in  the  intervals  that  Fulminster  affairs  allowed 
her  for  reflection. 

She    was    staying   with    Mrs.    Winstanley. 
Now  Mrs.  Winstanley  was  the  leading  social 
authority   in    Fulminster.     She   was  a  distant 
cousin   of  Canon  Chisely.      In   fact,  she  was 
an   infinite   number   of  irreproachable   things. 
Mothers  came  to  her  as  a  matrimonial  oracle. 
The  Mayor  consulted  her  on  ticklish  questions 
of  civic   etiquette.     The  affairs  of  the  parish 
were  in  her  hands.     Although  she  inhabited  a 
well-appointed  house  of  her  own,  she  superin- 
tended the  domestic  arrangements  of  the  Rec- 
tory ;  and  performed  all  the  duties  of  hostess 
for  her   cousin   when    he  entertained.     Thus, 
parochially  and  socially  she  was  invaluable  to 
the  Canon  —  his  right-hand  woman,  one  who 
could  share  his  dignity,  and,  by  so  doing,  add 
to  its  impressiveness.     If  he  had  been  called 
upon   to   write   her   epitaph,    he   would   have 
carved  upon  the  stone,  "  Here  lies  a  woman 
of  sense."     Now,  when  a  responsibly  placed 
and   grave   bachelor  of  three-and-forty   holds 
that  opinion  of  a  woman  of  his   own   years, 
123 


Derelicts 

and  consults  her  in  all  his  concerns,  the  result 
is  not  difficult  to  imagine.  Cousin  Emmeline 
ruled  the  Rectory,  with  exquisite  tact  it  is  true 
—  for  if  there  was  one  of  her  peculiar  and 
original  virtues  of  which  she  made  a  speciality, 
it  was  tact  —  but  yet  her  influence  was  para- 
mount. 

When  the  Canon  had  come  to  her  with 
a  request  to  invite  Madame  Yvonne  Latour 
to  stay  with  her,  she  had  elevated  polite  eye- 
brows. 

*'  Whoever  heard  of  such  a  thing !  '* 
"  It  seems   simple,"   said   the  Canon.     **  I 
can*t  invite  her  to  my  own  house,  so  I  beg  you 
to  invite  her  to  yours." 

"You  are  not  going  to  do  this  for  all  the 
professionals  engaged  at  the  festival  ? " 

"  Of  course  not,"  answered  the  Canon ; 
"  who  is  suggesting  anything  so  absurd  ?  " 

"  Then  why  make  an  exception  of  Madame 
Latour,  who  is  not  even  singing  the  leading 
parts  ? " 

"  She  is  very  delicate  and  requires  comforts," 
he  replied.  **  If  she  is  not  taken  care  of,  she 
may  not  be  able  to  sing  at  all.  Besides,  it  is 
my  particular  desire,  Emmeline.  I  assume  the 
privilege  of  expressing  it  to  you." 
124    • 


The   Canon's  Angel 

"  I    take   it   she    is    a    very  great  friend  of 

?>» 

"  A  very  great  friend,"  said  the  Canon. 
Mrs.  Winstanley  reviewed  many  unpleasant 
possibilities.  Certain  weaknesses  becoming  ap- 
parent in  her  own  impregnable  position  strongly 
tempted  her  to  refuse.  She  bit  her  lip  and 
looked  at  her  manicured  finger-nails. 

"  Come,  you  're  a  woman  of  sense,'*  added 
the  Canon,  after  a  pause. 

The  tribute  turned  the  tide  of  her  judgment. 
She  was  a  woman  of  sense.  How  absurd  of 
her  to  have  forgotten.  An  ironical  smile 
played  on  her  lips  and  lurked  in  her  steel-grey 
eyes. 

"You  want  to  present  Madame  Latour  to 
Ful minster  society,  Everard,  with  whatever 
advantages  may  be .  attached  to  my  chaper- 
onage?  " 

"  Precisely,"  said  the  Canon. 

"  Well,  I  will  send  the  invitation.  But  will 
she  accept  it  ?  " 

"  I  '11  see  about  that,"  he  replied  briskly. 
"  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you,  Emmeline/' 

She  smiled,  shook  hands  and  followed  him, 
with  a  word  of  parting,  to  the  door.     Then  as 
soon  as  it  was  shut  upon  him,  she  stamped  her 
.       125 


Derelicts 

foot  and  walked  across  the  room,  with  an 
exclamation  of  impatience. 

"  I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  fool  he  is  going 
to  make  of  himself!  " 

She  soon  saw.  One  is  not  a  woman  of 
sense  for  nothing.  On  the  eve  of  the  Festival, 
which  was  being  held  for  the  purpose  of  rais- 
ing flinds  for  the  restoration  of  the  old  Abbey 
church,  of  which  the  Canon  was  rector,  he 
gave  a  consecrating  dinner-party. 

The  Bishop  of  the  diocese,  who  was  staying 
at  the  Rectory,  was  there ;  Sir  Joshua  and 
Lady  Santyre,  and  others  of  the  high  and 
solemn  world  of  Fulminster.  Yet  the  Canon, 
with  a  high-bred  tact,  delicately  conveyed  the 
impression  that  Madame  Latour  was  the  guest 
of  the  evening.  Mrs.  Winstanley  kept  eyes 
and  ears  on  the  alert.  There  was  much  talk 
of  the  Festival.  On  the  morrow  the  "  Elijah" 
was  to  be  given,  with  Madame  Latour  in  the 
contralto  part.  The  Canon  was  solicitous  as 
to  her  voice,  beamed  with  pleasure  when  she 
offered,  in  her  sweet,  simple  way  to  sing  to  his 
guests,  and  stood  behind  her  as  she  sung,  with 
what,  in  Mrs.  Winstanley's  eyes,  appeared  an 
exasperating  expression  of  fatuity. 

A  Httle  later  in  the  evening,  a  young  gjirl, 
126 


The   Canon's  Angel 

Sophia  Wilmington,  went  up  to  him  with  the 
charming  insolence  of  youth. 

"  Why  did  n't  you  tell  us  she  was  so  sweet  ? 
I  've  fallen  head  over  ears  in  love  with  her." 

The  Canon  smiled,  bowed,  and  delivered 
himself  of  this  extraordinary  speech  :  — 

"  My  dear  Sophia,  next  to  falling  in  iove 
with  me,  myself,  you  could  not  give  me  greater 
pleasure." 

"  She  is  so  lovely,"  said  the  girl. 

"  A  chance  for  a  medallion,"  said  the  Canon. 
Miss  Wilmington  had  a  pretty  taste  in  medal- 
lion painting. 

"  Oh,  I  could  n't  get  her  colouring ;  but  I 
should  love  to  try  —  and  her  voice.  To  me, 
any  one  with  a  gift  like  that  seem*  above  ordi- 
nary mortals.  You  see  I  am  quite  ready  to 
wprship  your  angel." 

"  My  angel  ?  "  said  the  Canon,  sharply. 

Mrs.  Winstanley,  who  was  close  by,  discuss- 
ing the  Engadine  with  the  Bishop,  did  not  lose 
a  word  of  the  above  conversation.  At  his  last 
exclamation,  she  shot  a  swift  side  glance  which 
caught  the  momentary  confusion  and  flush  on 
the  Canon's  face.  She  was  quite  certain  now 
of  the  sort  of  fool  he  was  going  to  make  oi 
himself. 

127 


Derelicts 

Meanwhile,  the  girl  broke  into  a  gay  laugh. 

"  It  did  sound  funny.  I  meant  the  angel 
in  the  *  Elijah.'  " 

"  Oh,"  said  the  Canon,  "  I  was  forgetting  the 
'  Elijah.'  " 

Mrs.  Winstanley  resolved  at  least  to  say 
a  warning  word.  Before  she  left,  she  managed 
to  have  a  few  words  with  him. 

"  I  hope  you  are  keeping  your  eyes  verv 
wide  open,  Everard,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper. 

The  Canon  took  her  literally  and  so  re- 
garded her.  But  she  smiled  and  put  her  hand 
on  his  sleeve. 

"  She  is  quite  charming  and  all  of  that,  1 
grant.  But  she  is  very  much  deeper  than  she 
looks." 

"Really,  my  dear  Emmeline  — "  he  began, 
drawing  himself  up. 

"  Tut !  my  dear  friend ;  don't  be  offended. 
You  have  called  me  a  wise  woman  so  often 
that  I  believe  I  am  one.  Well,  trust  a  wise 
woman,  and  look  before  you  leap." 

"  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  leaping,  Emme- 
line," said  the  Canon,  stiffly. 

Mrs.  Winstanley  laughed,  as  if  she  had  a  sense 
oC  humour ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  was  driving 
Yvonne  homewards  in  her  snug  brougham. 

128 


The  Canon's  Angel 

But  the  Canon,  after  he  had  performed  his 
last  duties  as  host  towards  his  right  reverend 
guest,  sought  the  great  leathern  armchair 
before  his  study  fire  and  lit  a  cigar.  Emme- 
line's  words  had  disturbed  him.  That  is 
the  worst  of  keeping  a  consultant  cousin  —  a 
woman  of  sense.  Her  advice  may  save  you 
from  months  of  regret,  but  it  is  sure  to  cause 
you  bad  quarters  of  an  hour.  You  remember 
the  woman  and  disregard  the  sense  on  such 
occasions  ;  or  vice  versa.  Hitherto  Emmeline 
had  been  infallible.  The  fact  annoyed  him, 
and  he  let  his  cigar  die  out,  another  irritation. 
At  last  he  rose  impatiently,  and  going  to  a 
violin-case,  drew  from  it  a  favourite  Guarnerius 
fiddle,  tenderly  wrapped  in  a  silk  handkerchief. 
And  then,  having  put  on  the  sour  dine  y  so  as 
not  to  disturb  right  reverend  slumbers,  he  played 
"  O,  rest  in  the  Lord,"  with  considerable  taste 
and  execution. 

Perhaps  k  is  well  that  Mrs.  Winstanley  did 
not  hear  him. 

The  concert  began  at  three  o*clock.     The 

new  Town  Hall  was  packed  from  ceiling  to 

floor.     Canon   Chisely  stood   up  by   his  seat 

near  the  platform  and  looked  around  at  the 

9  129 


Derelicts 

great  mass  of  the  audience,  which  included 
the  flower  and  influence  of  the  county,  and 
then,  turning,  scanned  the  serried  hedgerow  of 
the  orchestra,  the  crowding  terraces  of  the 
choir,  and  the  thin  line  of  professionals  in 
front,  among  whom  Yvonne's  tiny  figure  had 
just  come  to  make  a  spot  of  grace ;  and  he  felt 
a  glow  of  pride.  It  was  all  his  doing.  The 
dream  of  many  years  was  in  process  of  being 
realised  —  the  completion  of  the  Abbey  Res- 
toration Fund.  Moreover,  he  had  succeeded 
in  developing  his  first  conception  of  an  unam- 
bitious concert  into  a  musical  event,  to  be 
chronicled  by  critics  from  the  London  dailies. 
He  had  other  reasons,  too,  for  satisfaction, 
neither  professional  nor  aesthetic. 

Yvonne  was  feeling  fluttered  and  happy. 
Fluttered,  because  it  was  an  important  engage- 
ment. There  are  very  few  chances,  even  for 
a  real  contralto,  in  oratorio  music,  and  her 
voice  was  more  mezzo.  Hitherto  she  had 
contented  herself  with  the  scraps.  If  she  had 
known  that  the  "  Elijah  "  had  been  deliberately 
selected  because  it  was  the  one  oratorio  in 
which  the  contralto  part  not  only  suited  her 
voice  perfectly,  but  also  rivalled  the  soprano 
in  importance,  the  fluttering  would  have 
130 


The  Canon's  Angel 

been  intensified  by  perplexity.  And  she  was 
happy,  because  all  the  world  was  smiling  on 
her,  particularly  Geraldine  Vicary  and  Vande- 
leur,  with  whom  she  was  in  immediate  con- 
verse. Vandeleur  had  been  engaged  long 
since  by  the  Canon  for  the  name-part,  partly 
on  account  of  his  magnificent  bass  voice,  and 
partly  to  please  Yvonne.  Geraldine  Vicary 
had  stepped  into  a  gap  caused  by  the  with- 
drawal of  a  more  celebrated  soprano  at  the 
last  moment.  Yvonne  was  smiling  brightly 
upon  Vandeleur.  She  liked  him.  He  had 
made  no  subsequent  reference  to  his  declara- 
tion of  love,  and  Yvonne,  with  her  facile 
temperament,  had  almost  forgotten  the  cir- 
cumstance. .Besides,  he  had  gone  back  to  his 
old  allegiance  to  Geraldine,  which  pleased 
Yvonne  greatly. 

The  conductor  stepped  to  his  stand  and 
tapped  with  his  baton.  Silence  succeeded  the 
buzz  of  talk  and  the  din  of  the  tuning  of 
fiddles.  Three  chords  from  the  orchestra, 
and  Vandeleur  sang  the  introduction ;  the 
overture,  the  opening  chorus,  and  then 
Yvonne  took  up  her  part.  Singing  was  her 
life.  After  the  first  bar,  she  sang  spontan- 
eously, like   the  birds,  free  from  nervousness 

131 


Derelicts 

or  self-consciousness.  And  during  her  waits 
the  sublime  music  absorbed  her  senses.  It 
swept  on  through  its  themes  of  despair,  re- 
nunciation, revelation,  and  promise;  through 
all  its  vivid  contrasts  —  the  great  trumpet  voice 
of  the  fwophet,  the  rolling  mass  of  sound  of 
the  chorus,  the  vibrating  notes  of  the  messen- 
ger — "  Hear  ye,  Israel ;  hear  what  the  Lord 
speaketh "  —  the  calm,  sweet  voice  of  the 
angel,  telling  of  peace. 

The  Canon  listened  through  all  with  the 
car  of  a  musician  and  the  heart  of  a  religious 
man.  But  there  was  a  chord  in  his  nature 
that  remained  untouched  when  Yvonne  was 
not  singing,  and  quivered  strangely  when  her 
voice  was  raised.  It  was  so  pathetically  weak, 
so  different  in  quality  from  Geraldine  Vicary's 
powerful  soprano,  apparently  so  incapable  of 
filling  that  vast  hall ;  and  yet  so  true,  so  ex- 
quisitely modulated  that  every  note  rang  clear 
to  the  farthest  gallery.  The  man  forgot  his 
three-and-forty  years,  the  strange  mingling  of 
worldly  wisdom  and  priestly  dignity  by  which 
most  of  his  judgments  were  formed,  and  he 
identified  the  woman  with  the  voice,  pure, 
angelic,  irresistibly  lovable. 

He  turned  to  his  neighbour,  Mrs.  Winstan- 
132 


The  Canon's  Angel 

ley,  after  the  "  O,  rest  in  the  Lord,"  his  eyes 
glistening,  and  whispered, — 
"  What  do  you  think  ?  " 
"An  unqualified  success,  Everard." 
"  I  am  so  glad." 

"  You  deserve  every  congratulation." 
"  Thanks,  from  my  heart,  Emmeline." 
"The  Obadiah  man  is  delightful." 
He  looked  blankly  at  her,  unable  to  read 
what  lay  behind  those  calm,  grey  eyes.     Then 
a  great  comfort  fell  upon  him.     The  woman  of 
sense   had  manifested  a  lack  of  intuition  that 
could  be  called  by  no  other  name  than  stu- 
pidity.    He  hugged  his  knee,  delighted.     But 
he  made  no  more  references  to  Yvonne.   • 

The  silence  following  the  crash  of  the  last 
"Amen,"  announced  the  end.  It  woke  him 
from  a  dream.  He  started  to  his  feet  with  the 
impulse  to  seek  Yvonne  on  the  platform,  but 
he  was  immediately  hemmed  in  by  a  circle  of 
congratulatory  friends.  As  soon  as  he  ob- 
tained breathing  space,  he  turned  round,  to 
find  that  she  had  withdrawn  to  the  ladies* 
dressing-room  to  put  on  her  things.  The 
hall  cleared  rapidly.  Mrs.  Winstanley  waited 
for  Yvonne,  who  did  not  come  at  once,  having  a 
flood  of  things  to  tell  to  Geraldine.  The  Canon 
133 


Derelicts 

grew  impatient.  It  was  getting  late,  and  he 
had  to  drive  the  Bishop  home  in  time  to  dress 
for  dinner  at  a  great  house  some  distance  away, 
It  would  be  his  only  chance  of  seeing  Yvonne 
that  ev-ening.  At  last  she  came  through  the 
side-door  and  down  the  platform  with  Miss 
Vicary.  He  advanced  to  assist  them  at  the 
steps,  and  then,  after  a  few  courteous  words  of 
thanks  to  Geraldine,  who  walked  on  uncon- 
cernedly toward  the  waiting  group,  found 
himself  alone  with  Yvonne. 

She  wore  high-standing  fur  at  her  throat 
and  a  tiny  fur  toque  in  the  mass  of  dark 
hair,  and  she  looked  very  winsome.  '  Foolish 
speeches  ran  in  his  grave  head,  but  he  could 
not  formulate  them. 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  very  tired,"  he  said, 
with  dignified  lameness,  pacing  by  her  side,  his 
hands  behind  his  back. 

"  Not  very.  My  throat  is  a  bit  stiff,  but 
that  will  go  off.     Well,  was  I  all  right  ?  " 

"My  dear  child  —  "began  the  Canon, 
stopping  abruptly. 

"  I  was  afraid  I  might  let  the  piece  down, 
you  know,"  she  said,  with  a  serene  smile.  "  I 
am  not  a  great  vocalist,  like  Miss  Vicary." 

"  Don't  speak  like  that,"  he  said,  awkwardly* 
134 


The  Canon's  Angel 

**  Besides,  your  voice  has  a  charm  that  hers  can 
never  have." 

"  So  you  are  quite  pleased  with  me  ?  "  She 
looked  up  at  him  with  such  trustful  simplicity 
that  his  rather  stern  face  grew  tender  with  a 
smile.  It  seemed  as  if  a  glimpse  of  her  true 
nature  was  revealed  to  him. 

"  You  are  like  a  child-angel,  asking  if  it  has 
been  good." 

"  Oh,  what  a  sweet,  pretty  thing  to  say ! " 
cried  Yvonne,  gaily.  "  I  shall  always  remem- 
ber it.  Canon  Chisely.  Now  I  know  I  sang 
nicely.  And,  you  know,  it 's  almost  like  being 
in  heaven  to  sing  that  part." 

"You  called  us  all  there  to  you,"  said  the 
Canon. 

Yvonne  blushed,  pleased  to  her  heart  by  the 
sincerity  of  the  compliment.  Coming  from 
Canon  Chisely,  it  had  singular  force.  There 
was  an  air  of  strength  and  dignity  about  his 
broad  shoulders,  his  strongly-marked,  thought- 
ful face,  and  his  grave,  yet  kindly  manner,  that 
had  always  set  him  apart,  in  her  estimation, 
from  the  other  men  with  whom  she  came  into 
contact.  She  never  included  him  in  her  gen- 
eralisations upon  men  and  their  strange  ways. 
His  profession  and  position,  as  well  as  his 
135 


Derelicts 

personality,  put  him  into  a  category  where  her 
unremembered  father,  and  Mr.  Gladstone,  and 
the  great  throat-surgeon  whom  she  had  once 
consulted,  vaguely  figured.  She  was  always 
conscious  of  being  on  her  very  best  behaviour 
while  talking  to  him. 

The  Canon  glanced  at  his  friends.  They 
were  conversing  animatedly,  as  if  in  no  great 
hurry  to  depart.  So  he  leant  back  against  the 
platform  and  lingered  a  while  with  Yvonne. 

"  You  must  take  care  not  to  catch  cold,"  he 
said,  after  a  while.  "  I  believe  it 's  a  horrid 
evening." 

*'  Ob,  don't  fear.  1  shall  be  all  right  to- 
morrow," said  Yvonne. 

"  1  am  not  thinking  of  to-morrow  at  all, 
though  any  hitch  then  would  be  a  misfortune, 
certainly.  I  am  anxious  about  yourself.  Your 
throat  is  already  relaxed." 

"  You  must  n't  spoil  me,  Canon  Chisely.  1 
am  used  to  going  out  in  all  kinds  of  weather, 
1  have  to,  you  know." 

"  I  wish  you  had  n't.  You  are  far  too 
fragile." 

"Oh,  I  am  stronger  than  I  look.  I  am 
tough  —  really." 

She  brought  out  the  Incongruous  epithet 
136 


The  Canon's  Angel 

so  prettily  that  he  put  back  his  head  and 
laughed. 

"  If  I  had  any  authority  over  you,  you 
should  not  play  tricks  with  yourself,"  he 
said,  in  grave  playfulness. 

"  But  you  have  a  great  deal  of  authority 
over  me.  I  should  never  dream  of  disobeying 
you. 

He  leaned  his  body  forward,  his  hands 
resting  on  the  platform  edge  behind  him,  and 
looked  at  her  earnestly. 

"  Do  you  thmk  so  much  of  me  as  that  ? " 
he  asked,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  Why,  of  course,  I  think  everything  of 
you,"  replied  Yvonne,  innocently.  "  Don't 
you  know  that  ?  " 

An  answer  was  on  his  lips,  but,  happening 
to  look  round,  he  caught  Mrs.  Winstanley's 
ironical  glance,  an  ofF-switch  to  sentiment. 
He  stroked  a  grizzling  whisker  and  drew 
himself  up. 

"  I  must  n't  keep  the  Bishop  waiting,"  he 
said. 

"  Nor  I,  Mrs.  Winstanley.'* 

They  joined  the  group,  where  Yvonne  re- 
ceived her  congratulations  and  compliments 
with  childish  pleasure.  In  a  few  moments 
137 


Derelicts 

they  separated,  and  the  Canon  drove  off,  re- 
garding the  Bishop  by  his  side  with  uncanonical 
feelings. 

Late  that  evening  Vandeleur  was  smoking  a 
cigarette  in  Miss  Vicary's  hotel  sitting-room. 
As  Yvonne's  friends,  they  had  been  dining 
with  Mrs.  Winstanley.  Vandeleur  was  charmed 
with  her  urbanity,  and  sang  her  praises  with 
Celtic  hyperbole. 

"  I  should  n't  trust  her  further  than  I  could 
see  her,"  said  Geraldine.  "  She  hangs  up  her 
smile  every  night  on  her  dressing-table." 

"  Just  hear  a  woman,  now,"  said  the  Irish- 
man. 

"  Yes,  just  hear  a  woman,"  retorted  Geral- 
dine, sarcastically.  "  I  suppose  you  think  she 
loves  Yvonne,  don't  you  ?  " 

"  Of  course  I  do.  I  'm  sure  she  *s  thinking 
how  sweet  she  is  this  very  minute." 

"  She  would  like  to  be  poisoning  Yvonne 
this  very  minute." 

"  Well,  I  'm  blest !  "  exclaimed  Vandeleur, 
letting  the  match  die  out  with  which  he  was 
preparing  to  light  a  fresh  cigarette.  "  It  takes 
a  woman  to  imagine  gratuitous  devilry  1 " 

"  And  it  takes  a  man  to  absorb  himself  in 
his  dinner  to  the  besotting  of  his  intelligence  I 

138 


The  Canon's  Angel 

But  I  have  eyes.  And  a  logical  mind  —  don't 
tell  me  I  have  n't.  Now,  hitherto,  Mrs.  Win- 
stanley  seems  to  have  been  the  central  figure 
in  this  wretched  little  provincial  society.  Who 
is,  at  the  present  moment  ?  " 

"  Sure,  it  *s  yourself,  Geraldine  —  the  great 
soprano  from  London." 

She  did  not  condescend  to  notice  the 
flattery. 

"  It 's  Yvonne.  I  bet  you  she  *s  the  most- 
talked-of  person  in  Fulminster  this  evening. 
And  Mrs.  Winstanley  the  sickest.  Oh,  how 
dull  men  are !  What  is  all  this  Festival, 
really,  but  the  apotheosis  of  Yvonne  ? " 

"  It 's  the  canonisation  of  Yvonne,  I  should 
say,"  remarked  Vandeleur,  drily. 

Miss  Vicary's  expression  relaxed,  and  she 
leaned  back  in  her  chair. 

"  You  're  not  such  a  fool,  after  all.  Van." 

"  So  I  've  been  told  before,"  he  replied,  with 
a  chuckle.  "Anyhow,  it  will  be  a  splendid 
thing  for  the  dear  child." 

"  Oh,  how  can  it  be  ?  I  have  no  patience 
with  you  ! " 

"  That 's  obvious,"  said  Vandeleur. 

"Yvonne  would  give  any  man  her  head,  if 
he  whimpered  or  clamoured  for  it,"  continued 
139 


Derelicts 

Geraldine,  rising  to  her  feet,  "  and  then  tell 
you  in  her  pathetic  way,  *  but  he  wanted  it  so, 
dear.'  And  there  isn't  a  man  living  who 
could  be  good  enough  to  Yvonne  1 " 

"  There  I  agree  with  you,"  said  Vandeleur. 

Meanwhile,  Yvonne  was  going  to  sleep, 
quite  unconscious  of  the  facts  that  had 
aroused  Miss  Vicary's  indignation.  The 
memory  of  the  artistic  triumph  of  the  day. 
and  the  Canon's  generous  praise  lingered 
pleasantly  around  her  pillow.  But  if  there 
was  any  one  man  to  whom  her  thoughts 
were  tenderly  given,  it  was  the  unhappy  friend 
of  her  girlhood,  who  was  then  speeding  into 
exile  over  the  bleak  autumn  seas. 


CHAPTER   IX 

PAST,    PRESENT,    AND    FUTURE 

If  genius  is  mad,  sensitiveness  degenerate, 
and  emotionality  neurotic,  and  if  heredity  is 
the  determining  principle  in  the  causation  of 
character,  comparative  psychology  enables  us 
to  account  for  many  things.  On  these  lines  it 
could  fairly  be  argued  that  one  family  taint  of 
neurosis,  manifesting  itself  diversely,  had  driven 
Stephen  Chisely  to  the  gaol  and  brought  his 
oousin,  the  Canon,  to  the  feet  of  Yvonne. 
Though  there  may  be  fallacies  in  the  premises, 
there  is,  however,  a  certain  plausibility  in  the 
deduction.  Through  both  men  ran  a  vein  of 
artistic  feeling  carrying  with  it  a  perception  of 
the  beautiful  and  an  impulse  toward  its  attain- 
ment. This  malady  of  sensitiveness  —  to  speak 
by  the  book  —  had  carried  Stephen  beyond 
the  bounds  of  moral  principle.  It  prevailed  at 
times  over  Canon  Chisely's  natural  austerity 
and  hardness.  If  in  the  one  case  it  had  been 
a  curse,  in  the  other  it  was  a  blessing. 

141 


Derelicts 

In  politics  a  Tory,  in  social  attitude  proud 
of  caste,  in  creed  a  rigid  Anglican,  in  morals 
conventional,  in  affairs  a  man  of  cold,  crystal- 
line judgment,  he  had  few  of  the  undegenerate 
qualities  that  make  for  lovableness  of  character. 
The  aesthetic  sense,  deeply  spreading,  was  the  re- 
deeming vice  of  a  sternly  virtuous  man.  It  was 
his  social  salvation,  his  vehicle  of  happiness,  his 
bond  of  sympathy  with  his  fellow-creatures. 

The  beauty  of  Yvonne's  voice  had  attracted 
him  toward  her,  years  before  —  afterwards,  the 
beauty  of  her  face.  But  it  was  not  until  the 
conception  of  her  nature's  beauty,  idealised  by 
he  knew  not  what  artistry  within  him  from 
voice  and  face  and  simple  thoughts  and  acts, 
arose  within  his  mind,  that  he  became  conscious 
of  deeper  feelings.  At  first  it  seemed  as  if  he 
had  disintegrated  the  soul  of  his  favourite 
Greuze  —  fathomed  the  unplumbed  innocence 
of  its  eyes  as  its  hand  closes  over  the  apple  — 
and  was  regarding  it  with  a  poet's  wonder. 
But  then  his  sterner  nature  asserted  itself, 
restoring  mental  equilibrium.  He  realised 
that  his  feelings  for  her  were  what  men  call 
love,  and  soberly  he  thought  of  marriage. 

He  had  often,  previously,  considered  the 
advantages  of  matrimony.     It  was  an  honour- 

142 


Past,   Present,  and  Future 

able  estate,  becoming  to  his  position,  involving 
parental  responsibilities  which,  for  God's  greater 
glory,  it  behoved  a  man  of  his  calibre  to  seek. 
The  wife  he  had  contemplated  was  to  be  a 
woman  of  culture,  reserve,  high  principle,  who 
could  grace  his  table,  aid  him  in  spiritual  affairs, 
and  bear  him  worthy  offspring.  He  was  called 
upon  now  to  reorganise  his  conceptions.  It  is 
true  that  his  idea  of  the  advantages  of  the  mar- 
ried state  was  unaffected,  save  by  the  addition 
of  one  undreamed  of —  the  sunshine  of  a  sweet 
woman's  face  in  his  cold  home.  But  the  dis- 
parity between  the  ideal  woman  and  the  real 
one  was  alarming.  Socially,  parentally,  spirit- 
ually, was  Yvonne  the  woman  to  hold  the  high 
office  of  his  wife  ?  He  gave  the  matter  months 
of  anxious  reflection.  He  was  marrying  at 
leisure,  certainly,  he  thought  grimly ;  would 
he  repent  in  haste  ?  At  length  his  love  for 
Yvonne  wove  itself  into  his  schemes  for  the 
Festival.  Yvonne  should  come  to  Fulminster, 
take  her  place  at  once  in  society  under  Mrs. 
Winstanley's  chaperonage  and  win  her  welcome 
with  her  voice.  Thus  he  would  have  an  oppor- 
tunity of  judging  her  within  his  own  environ- 
ment. A  complex  mingling  of  passion  and 
calculation. 

143 


Derelicts 

And  Yvonne,  demurely  Innocent,  had  passed 
through  the  ordeal.  As  the  Canon  drove  away 
from  the  "  Elijah,"  he  doubted  no  longer.  Be- 
fore she  left  Fulminster  he  would  ask  her  to  be 
his  wife.  It  is  characteristic  of  the  man  that 
he  had  no  serious  fears  of  her  refusal. 

The  Festival  was  over.  It  was  the  day  after. 
Miss  Vicary  and  Vandeleur  had  returned  to 
town  by  an  early  train  and  Yvonne  was  spend- 
ing an  idle  morning  over  the  fire.  She  had 
wandered  round  the  shelves  of  the  morning- 
room  In  search  of  a  novel,  and  had  selected 
"  Corinne  "  because  it  was  French.  But  Yvonne 
was  a  child  of  the  age,  and  children  of  the  age 
do  not  appreciate  Madame  de  Stael.  One  can 
understand  a  dear  old  lady  In  curls  and  cap 
sighing  lovingly  over  "  Corinne,"  bringing  back 
as  it  does  memories  of  inky  fingers  and  eternal 
friendships;  but  not  —  well,  not  Yvonne.  She 
loved  "  Gyp."  An  unread  volume  was  in  her 
trunk  upstairs.  She  felt  too  tired  and  lazy  to 
get  it.  Besides,  she  was  not  quite  sure  whether 
the  sight  of  "  Gyp "  would  not  shock  Mrs. 
WInstanley,  who  was  engaged  over  her  vol- 
uminous correspondence  at  a  table  by  the 
window. 

144 


Past,   Present,  and   Future 

"  They  have  such  queer  prejudices,"  thought 
Yvonne.     "  One  never  knows." 

So  she  dropped  "  Corinne  "  on  to  the  floor 
and  looked  at  the  fire.  In  spite  of  her  awe  of 
Mrs.  Winstanley,  she  was  sorry  to  leave  Ful- 
minster.  Life  had  been  made  very  pleasant 
for  her  the  last  few  days.  Her  throat  was 
somewhat  relaxed  after  the  strain.  She  wished 
she  could  give  it  a  long  rest.  But  on  Monday 
she  was  engaged  to  sing  at  a  club  concert  at 
the  Crystal  Palace  and  in  the  morning  she  was 
to  resume  her  singing  lessons  ;  and  the  weather 
in  London  was  wet  and  muggy.  It  would  be 
bliss  to  be  idle,  not  to  think  of  earning  money 
and  just  to  sing  when  you  wanted.  She  turned 
her  head  and  caught  a  chance  glimpse  of  her 
hostess's  face.  The  morning  light  streaming 
full  upon  it  showed  up  pitilessly  the  network 
of  lines  beneath  her  eyes  and  the  fallen  con- 
tours of  her  lips  and  the  roughness  of  her  skin. 
Yvonne  was  startled  at  seeing  her  look  so  old 
and  faded  —  a  letter  to  a  sister-in-law  detailing 
Everard's  folly  did  not  conduce  to  sweetness 
of  expression  —  and  she  wondered  whether  she, 
Yvonne,  would  be  happy  when  she  came  to 
look  like  that.  She  shivered  a  little  at  the 
thought.  Yes,  the  years  would  pass,  leaving 
'<>  145 


Derelicts 

their  footprints,  and  she  would  grow  old  and 
her  voice  would  pass  away.  It  was  dread- 
ful. When  Yvonne  did  enter  the  gloom,  she 
made  it  very  dark  indeed,  and  summoned  every 
available  bogey.  What  should  she  do  in  her 
old  age,  when  she  could  no  longer  earn  her 
living  ?  Geraldine  was  always  preaching  thrift, 
but  she  had  put  nothing  by  as  yet.  If  she 
became  incapacitated  to-morrow,  she  did  not 
know  how  she  would  live.  She  looked  at  the 
fire  wistfully,  her  brow  knitted  in  faint  lines, 
and  found  her  position  very  pathetic.  But 
just  then  Bruce,  Mrs.  Winstanley's  collie,  rose 
from  the  rug  and  came  and  laid  his  chin  on  her 
knees,  looking  at  her  with  great,  mournful  eyes. 
Yvonne  broke  into  a  sudden  laugh,  which 
astonished  both  Bruce  and  his  mistress,  and 
taking  the  dog's  silky  ears  in  her  hands,  she 
kissed  his  nose  and  rallied  him  gaily  on  his 
melancholy.  So  Yvonne  stepped  out  of  the 
darkness  into  the  sunshine  again. 

Presently  a  servant  entered. 

"  Canon  Chisely  would  be  glad  if  he  could 
see  Madame  Latour  for  a  moment.'* 

"  Where  is  the  Canon  ?  "  asked  Mrs.  Win- 
stanley. 

**  In  the  drawing-room,  ma'am." 
146 


Past,   Present,  and  Future 

Yvonne  rose  quickly  and  went  to  her  host- 
ess, who  slipped  a  sheet  of  blotting-paper  over 
her  half-finished  page. 

"  Shall  I  go  down  ? " 

"  Naturally." 

Yvonne  spoke  a  word  to  the  servant,  who 
retired,  and  then  gave  her  hair  a  few  tidying 
touches  before  the  mirror  in  the  over-mantel. 

"  I  wonder  if  he  has  brought  me  those  old 
Proven9al  songs." 

"  I  hope  he  has,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Win- 
stanley,  drily. 

"  Well,  he  is  sure  to  have  something  nice  to 
tell  me,  at  any  rate,"  replied  Yvonne,  in  her 
sunny  way. 

The  Canon  was  standing  on  the  hearthrug, 
his  hands  behind  his  back.  On  the  table  lay 
his  hat  and  gloves.  Yvonne  advanced  quickly 
across  the  room  to  meet  him,  her  face  lit  with 
genuine  pleasure.  He  greeted  her  gravely  and 
held  her  hand  in  both  of  his. 

"  I  have  come  to  have  a  serious  talk  with 
you." 

"  Have  I  been  doing  anything  wrong  ? " 
asked  Yvonne,  looking  up  into  his  face. 

"  We  shall  see,"  he  said.  «miling.  "  Let 
Qs  sit  down." 

147 


Derelicts 

Still  holding  her  hand,  he  drew  her  to  the 
couch  by  the  fireside,  and  they  sat  down 
together. 

"  It  is  about  yourself,  Yvonne — I  may  call  you 
Yvonne?  —  and  about  myself  too.  You  have 
always  felt  that  you  have  had  a  friend  in  me  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  a  dear  friend.  Canon.  No  one  is  to 
me  the  same  as  you.  I  shan't  mind  at  all  if 
you  scold  me." 

She  looked  at  him  so  guilelessly,  so  trust- 
ingly, that  his  heart  melted  over  her.  Verily 
she  was  the  wife  sent  to  him  by  heaven. 

"  I  was  but  jesting,  Yvonne.  Besides,  how 
could  I  dare  scold  you  ?  It  is  I  who  come  as 
a  suppliant  to  you,  my  dear.  I  love  you,  and  it 
is  the  dearest  wish  of  my  heart  to  make  you  my 
wife." 

The  sun  died  out  of  Yvonne's  eyes,  her 
heart  stopped  beating,  she  looked  at  him  in 
piteous  amazement. 

"  You  —  want  me  —  ? " 

"  Yes.     Is  it  so  strange  ?  '* 

"  You  are  jesting  still  —  I  don't  under- 
stand—  "  She  had  withdrawn  her  hand  from 
his  clasp,  and  was  sitting  upright,  twisting  her 
handkerchief  and  trembling  all  over.  It  was 
so  unexpected.     She  could  scarcely  trust  her 

148 


Past,  Present,  and   Future 

senses.  She  had  regarded  him  more  as  an 
influence  than  as  a  man.  To  Geraldine's  wit 
she  had  given  not  a  moment's  thought.  To 
marry  Canon  Chisely  —  the  idea  seemed  un- 
real, preposterous.  And  yet  she  heard  his 
voice  pleading.  She  was  overwhelmed  by  the 
sudden  magnitude  of  responsibility.  He  had 
swooped  down  and  caught  her  up  through  the 
vast  moral  spaces  that  lay  between  them,  and 
she  was  dizzy  and  breathless. 

"  I  do  not  press  you  for  your  answer,"  she 
heard  him  saying.  "To-morrow  —  a  week,  a 
month  hence  —  what  you  will.  Take  your 
time.  I  can  give  you  a  good  name,  comfort 
in  worldly  things  —  the  ease  and  freedom  from 
care  which,  thank  God,  my  means  allow  —  an 
honourable  position,  and  a  deep,  true  affection. 
Would  you  like  me  to  wait  a  month  before  I 
speak  to  you  again  ? " 

"  A  month  could  make  no  difference,"  mur- 
mured Yvonne.  "  It  would  seem  as  strange 
then  as  now."  There  was  a  sudden  pause  in 
the  whirl  of  her  thoughts.  Was  it  a  bewilder- 
ing device  of  his  to  show  her  kindness,  provide 
for  her  future  ? 

"  I  could  n*t  accept  it  from  you,"  she  added 
incoherently. 

149 


Derelicts 

**  But  It  is  I  who  want  you,  Yvonne,"  said 
the  Canon,  earnestly.  "  It  is  I  who  must  have 
you  to  brighten  my  home  and  comfort  my  life. 
If  your  life  is  lying  idle,  as  it  were,  Yvonne, 
give  it  me  to  use  for  my  happiness.  For 
months  I  have  given  this  my  deepest,  most 
anxious  thought.  I  am  not  a  man  to  talk 
lightly  of  love  and  marriage.  When  I  say 
that  I  want  you,  it  means  that  you  are  neces- 
sary to  me.     And  you  trust  me  ? " 

"Above  all  men  —  of  course  —  " 

"  Then  your  answer  —  *  yes,'  or  *  no,'  or 
*  wait.' " 

She  was  silent.  He  put  his  arm  round  her 
shoulders  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"  You  must  be  my  wife,  Yvonne.  Why  not 
say  *  yes  '  now  ? " 

She  felt  powerless  beneath  the  strong  will  and 
authority  of  the  man.  Why  he  should  wish  to 
marry  her,  she  could  not  understand ;  but  his 
words  had  all  the  weight  of  an  imperative. 

"  If  you  must  have  me,  then  —  "  said  she  in 
a  quavering  little  voice,  "  I  must  do  as  you 
say." 

"You  will  be  happy,  my  child,"  he  said, 
reassuringly.  "  I  will  make  it  all  sunshine  for 
you  —  you  need  have  no  fears." 

ISO 


Past,   Present,  and   Future 

He  drew  her  yet  closer  to  him  and  kissed 
her  forehead ;   then  he  released  her  gently. 

"  So  it 's  a  promise  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Yvonne. 

"  Then  look  into  my  eyes  and  say, '  Everard, 
I  will  take  you  for  my  husband.'  " 

He  said  it  loverwise,  and,  dignitary  though 
he  was,  with  a  touch  of  a  lover's  fatuity.  The 
tone  revived  Yvonne's  animation. 

"  Oh,  I  could  n't,"  she  cried,  with  a  queer 
little  laugh,  midway  between  despair  and  gaiety. 
"  I  should  n't  dare  —  it  would  n't  sound  re- 
spectful." 

«  Try,"  said  he.     "  Say  '  Everard.'  " 

But  Yvonne  shook  her  head.  "  I  must 
practise  it  by  myself." 

The  Canon  laughed.  He  was  well  contented 
with  the  world.  Her  modesty  and  innocence 
charmed  him.  Married  though  she  had  been, 
the  fragrance  of  maidenhood  seemed  still  to 
hover  round  her.  She  was  an  exquisite  thing 
to  have  taken  possession  of. 

"  Are  you  happy  ? "  he  asked,  taking  her 
small  brown  hand  that  lay  clasped  with  the 
other  on  her  lap. 

"  I  am  too  frightened  to  be  happy  —  yet," 
she  replied  softly,  with  a  shy  lift  of  her  eyes. 


Derelicts 

"  I  don't  quite  understand  what  has  happened. 
Half  an  hour  ago  I  was  a  poor  little  singer  — 
and  now  —  " 

"  You  are  my  affianced  wife,"  said  the  Canon, 
with  grave  promptness. 

"  That 's  what  I  can't  realise.  Everything 
seems  topsy-turvy.  Oh,  it  is  your  wish, 
Canon  Chisely,  is  n't  it  ?  You  are  so  good 
and  wise,  you  would  n't  let  me  do  anything 
that  was  not  right  ? " 

"  Always  trust  to  me  for  your  happiness, 
Yvonne,  and  all  will  be  well,"  answered  the 
Canon. 

Presently  she  rose,  gave  him  her  hand  with 
simple  dignity. 

"  I  must  go  and  think  it  over  by  myself. 
You  will  let  me  ?  Another  time  I  will  stay 
with  you  as  long  as  you  want  me." 

The  Canon  led  her  to  the  door,  kissed  her 
hand,  bending  low  over  it  in  an  old-fashioned 
way,  and  bowed  her  out  of  the  room.  Then 
he  rang  for  the  servant  and  sent  a  message 
to  Mrs.  Winstanley.  He  was  a  man  of  prompt 
execution. 

In  the  interview  that  followad,  the  Canoi 
came  off  triumphant.     He  parried  his  cousin's 
thrusts  of  satire  with  a  solicitude  for  her  own 

152 


Past,   Present,  and   Future 

welfare  that  was  not  free  from  irony.  If  she 
had  not  so  openly  showed  him  her  distaste  for 
the  marriage,  he  might  have  displayed  some 
sympathy  for  her  in  the  loss  oi  prestige  that 
she  was  sustaining  as  lady  ruler  of  the  Rectory. 
As  matters  stood,  he  considered  she  had  for- 
feited it  by  her  caprice.  Besides,  he  had 
shrewdly  determined  that  there  should  not  be 
a  triple  dominion  in  his  house. 

"  I  hope  she  will  extend  your  sphere  of  use- 
fulness, Everard,  as  a  wife  should,"  said  Mrs. 
Winstanley.  "  But  she  is  inexperienced  in 
these  matters.    You  will  not  be  hard  upon  her." 

"  I  am  only  hard  on  those  who  disregard  my 
authority.  Then  it  is  duty  and  not  severity. 
Have  you  ever  found  me  a  harsh  taskmaster, 
Emmeline  ? " 

"  You  would  n't  compare  us  surely  ? " 

"  Certainly  not.  I  could  compare  my  wife 
with  no  other  woman.  It  would  be  in  all 
respects  wrong." 

"  Well,"  she  replied,  bidding  him  adieu,  "  I 
hope  that  you  will  be  happy." 

"  My  dear  Emmeline,"  said  the  Canon,  "  I 
have  been  humbly  conscious  for  years  that  my 
happiness  has  always  been  one  of  your  chief 
considerations." 

IS3 


Derelicts 

From  Mrs.  Winstanley's  he  proceeded  at 
once  to  Lady  Santyre's,  where  he  received 
congratulations  and  luncheon.  He  left  with 
the  comfortable  certainty  that  all  Fulminster 
would  ring  with  the  news  of  his  engagement 
during  the  course  of  the  afternoon.  His  an- 
nouncement was  as  public  as  if  he  had  pro- 
claimed it  from  the  pulpit.  And  Fulminster 
did  ring  as  he  had  expected  —  not  that  it  was 
unprepared,  for  the  Canon's  attentions  to 
Madame  Latour  had  been  a  subject  of  uni- 
versal speculation.  Murmurings  arose  in  cer- 
tain quarters.  The  neighbourhood  abounded 
in  the  aristocratic  fair  unwedded,  and  the  Canon 
was  highly  eligible.  One  of  the  aggrieved  de- 
clared that  all  the  Chiselys  were  eccentric,  and 
instanced  the  unfortunate  Stephen. 

"  My  dear,"  replied  in  remonstrance  her 
interlocutor,  who  had  just  married  her  last 
daughter  to  the  leading  manufacturer  in  Ful- 
minster, "  You  must  not  talk  as  if  the  Canon 
had  run  off  with  a  ballet-girl." 

But  generally  his  indiscretion  was  condoned. 
It  had  been  a  stroke  of  genius  to  let  Yvonne 
charm  her  critics  from  a  public  platform  at 
the  very  outset. 

For  Yvonne  herself,  the  remainder  of  her 
154 


Past,  Present,  and   Future 

visit  passed  in  a  whirl.  Families  called  upon 
her;  mothers  congratulated  her;  the  "Fulmin- 
ster  Gazette "  interviewed  her ;  the  Santyres 
changed  the  small  dinner-party,  to  which  she 
had  been  already  asked,  into  a  solemn  banquet 
in  her  honour ;  and  the  Canon  was  ever  at  her 
side,  attentive,  courteous,  dignified,  authorita- 
tive, playing  his  part  to  perfection.  The 
flattery  pleased  her.  The  universal  deference 
paid  to  the  Canon,  of  which  she  had  grown 
more  keenly  conscious,  awakened  a  shy  pride. 
But  it  all  seemed  an  incongruous  dream,  out 
of  which  she  would  awake  when  she  found 
herself  in  her  tiny  flat  in  the  Marylebone 
Road.  She  was  afraid  to  go  back.  If  it  was 
a  dream,  she  would  regret  this  sudden  lifting 
from  her  shoulders  of  all  sordid  cares,  the 
dread  of  losing  her  voice,  of  poverty,  and  the 
grasshopper's  wintry  old  age.  If  it  continued 
true,  she  feared  lest  the  familiar  surroundings 
might  pain  her  with  rep-ret  for  the  life  she  was 
abandoning  —  the  sweet  artist's  life,  with  all  its 
inconsequences  and  its  purposes,  its  hopes  and 
fears,  its  freedom  and  its  claims.  Even  now, 
she  cried  a  little  at  the  prospect  of  giving  it 
up.  And  then  she  would  n't  know  herself. 
Hitherto,  her  conception  of  herself  had  been  — 
155 


Derelicts 

Yvonne  Latour,  the  singer.  That  was  her 
Alpha  and  Omega.  It  would  be  like  looking 
in  the  glass  and  seeing  a  total  stranger.  It  was 
pathetic. 

On  Sunday  she  received  a  series  of  sensa- 
tions. She  believed  such  elemental  doctrines 
as  she  had  received  at  her  mother's  knee :  in  a 
beautiful  heaven  and  a  fearful  hell,  in  Christ 
and  the  angels — -she  was  not  quite  certain 
about  the  Virgin  Mary  —  in  the  Lord's 
Prayer,  which  she  said  every  night  at  her 
bedside,  and  in  the  goodness  of  going  to 
church.  Her  religion  might  have  been  that 
of  a  bird  of  the  air  for  all  the  shackles  it  laid 
upon  her  soul.  But  the  outer  forms  of  wor- 
ship impressed  her  strongly  —  church  music, 
solemn  silences,  vestments,  stained  v/indows, 
even  words.  She  felt  very  solemn  when  she 
called  her  innocent  self  a  "  miserable  sinner  "  in 
the  Litany,  and  the  word  "  Sabbaoth,"  in  the 
"  Te  Deum,"  always  seemed  fraught  with  mys- 
tic meaning.  The  symbolic  hushed  her  into 
awe.  Even  the  surplices  of  the  choir-boys 
set  them  apart  for  the  moment,  in  her  mind, 
from  the  baser  sort  of  urchins.  And,  a  fortiori^ 
the  clergyman,  in  surplice  and  stole,  had  al- 
ways appealed  to  her  childish  imagination  as 

IS6 


Past,   Present,  and   Future 

a  being  that  moved  in  an  especial  odour  o' 
sanctity.  It  is  fair  to  add  that  Yvonne's 
church-going  had  never  been  as  regular  as 
might  have  been  desired,  so  these  reverential 
feelings  had  not  been  staled  by  custom.  How- 
ever, when  the  Canon  appeared  at  the  reading- 
desk,  and  his  fine  voice  rang  through  the 
Abbey,  Yvonne  felt  a  sudden  pang  of  alarm. 
The  night  before  he  had  been  so  tender  and 
playful  that  he  had  almost  seemed  to  be  upon 
her  level.  And  now,  he  was  far,  far  away. 
The  distance  between  her,  poor,  insignificant 
little  Yvonne,  and  him  performing  his  sacred 
office,  appeared  immeasurably  vast.  And  when 
he  mounted  the  pulpit,  her  awe  grew  greater. 
She  could  not  realise  that  he  was  her  affianced 
husband. 

He  preached  on  the  text  from  the  story  of 
Nicodemus,  "  Except  a  man  be  born  again." 
The  words  caught  her  fancy  as  being  apposite 
to  her  own  case,  and,  disregarding, the  thread  of 
the  Canon's  discourse,  she  preached  a  little 
sermon  to  herself.  She  was  going  to  be  born 
again.  Yvonne  the  singer  would  die,  and  a 
new,  regenerate  Yvonne,  the  lady  of  the  Rec- 
tory, Mrs.  Everard  Chisely,  would  appear  in 
her  stead.  She  caught  a  phrase  in  which  the 
157 


Derelicts 

Canon  touched  upon  the  spiritual  pain  attend- 
ing on  the  death  of  the  old  Adam.  She  won- 
dered whether  she  would  be  called  upon  to 
suffer  the  fire  of  purification.  It  was  like  the 
Phoenix.  At  this  point  she  pulled  herself  up 
short.  To  mix  up  the  Phoenix  and  Nicodemus 
might  be  profane.  So  she  bestowed  her  best 
attention  on  the  remainder  of  the  sermon. 

That  afternoon  he  took  her  through  the 
Rectory  —  a  great  rambling  Elizabethan  house, 
with  nineteenth-century  additions.  She  fol- 
lowed him  meekly  from  room  to  room,  filled 
with  wonder  at  the  beauty  of  her  future  home. 
The  Canon  had  spent  much  money  over  his 
collections  —  overmuch,  some  critics  said  — 
and  the  house  was  a  museum  of  art  treasures. 
Pictures,  statuary,  wood-carvings,  rare  furni- 
ture met  her  in  every  apartment,  at  every  turn 
of  the  stairs.  At  first,  the  awe  with  which  his 
sacerdotal  character  had  inspired  her  kept  her 
subdued,  but  gradually  the  new  impressions 
effaced  it.  He  spoke  as  if  all  these  things 
were  already  hers  —  established,  as  it  were,  a 
joint  ownership. 

"  This  is  your  own  boudoir,"  he  said,  as 
he  led  her  into  a  pleasant  room,  overlook- 
ing the  lawn  and  commanding  a  view  of  the 

158 


Past,   Present,  and   Future 

Abbey.  "  Do  you  think  you  will  be  happy 
in  itr 

"  I  must  be,"  she  said,  gratefully.  "  Not 
only  because  you  have  given  me  the  most 
beautiful  room  in  the  whole  house,  but  because 
you  are  so  good  to  me  in  all  things." 

"Who  could  help  being  good  to  you,  my 
child  ? "  said  the  Canon. 

He  was  sincere.  Yvonne  felt  humbled  and 
yet  lifted.  Her  eyes  dwelt  for  a  shy  moment 
on  his.  He  seemed  so  kind,  so  loyal,  so 
indulgent,  and  yet  a  man  so  greatly  to  be 
venerated  and  honoured,  that  all  her  sweet 
womanhood  was  moved.  Standing,  too,  in 
this  room  that  was  to  be  her  own,  she  felt 
the  future  melt  into  the  present.  Her  hand 
slipped  timidly  through  his  arm. 

"  I  shall  never  know  why  you  want  me," 
she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  "  but  I  pray  God  I 
may  be  a  good  and  loving  and  obedient  wife  to 
you." 

**  Amen,  dear,"  said  the  Canon,  kissing  her. 


159 


CHAPTER  X 

COUNSELS    OF    PERFECTION 

So  Yvonne  was  married,  and  for  six  months 
was  completely  happy.  Fulminster  and  the 
county  entertained  her,  and  she  entertained 
Fulminster  and  the  county.  Her  husband 
petted  her  and  relieved  her  of  serious  responsi- 
bilities. She  won  the  hearts  of  Mrs.  Dirks 
the  housekeeper,  of  Jordan  the  gardener,  and 
Fletcher  the  coachman,  three  autocrats  in 
their  respective  spheres  of  influence  —  victories 
whereby  she  controlled  the  menu,  filled  the 
house  with  whatever  flowers  struck  her  fancy, 
and  had  out  the  horses  at  the  moment  of  her 
caprice.  Her  quick  wit  soon  obtained  a  grasp 
upon  domestic  affairs  and  her  headship  in  the 
household  was  a  practical  fact  which  the  Canon 
proudly  recognised.  Her  social  duties  she  per- 
formed with  the  tact  born  of  simplicity.  Mrs. 
Winstanley  went  away  raging  after  her  first 
dinner-party.  She  had  expected  a  consoling' 
i6o 


Counsels  of  Perfection 

proof  of  incapacity  and  had  witnessed  a  little 
triumph  of  hostess-ship. 

Not  a  cloud  had  appeared  on  her  horizon 
since  the  wedding-day,  when  they  had  started 
upon  a  magic  month  in  Italy,  among  blue  lakes 
and  bluer  skies  and  gorgeous  pictures  and  mar- 
ble palaces.  After  that,  there  had  been  the 
excitement  of  home-coming,  the  fluttering 
sweetness  of  taking  possession,  the  bewildering 
succession  of  fresh  faces  in  her  drawing-room, 
the  long  drives  to  return  calls,  and  to  attend 
parties  in  her  honour.  The  new  duties  inter- 
ested her.  She  revelled  in  an  infants'  class  at 
the  Sunday  school,  which  she  instructed  in  a 
theology  undreamed  of  by  the  Fathers.  She 
sang  at  local  concerts.  She  dressed  herself  in 
dainty  raiment  to  please  her  husband's  eye. 
In  fact  she  made  a  study  of  his  aesthetic  tastes 
from  food  to  music,  and  delighted  in  gratifying 
them.  With  feminine  pliancy  she  strove  to 
adapt  her  moods  to  his.  His  face  became  a 
book  which  she  loved  to  read  when  they  met 
after  a  few  hours'  absence ;  and,  according  to 
what  she  read,  she  became  demure,  or  gay,  oi 
businesslike.  In  her  leisure  hours  she  sang  to 
herself,  read  French  novels,  which  she  obtained 
in  unlimited  supply  from  London,  and  sougnt 
«  l6i 


Derelicts 

the  society  of  Sophia  Wilmington  and  het 
brother,  who  quickly  constituted  themselves 
her  chief  friends  and  advisers  in  Fulminster. 
Often  she  sat  idle  and  gave  herself  up  to 
dreamy  contemplation  of  her  beatitude. 

In  these  moods  comparisons  would  arise  be- 
tween her  two  marriages,  and  between  the  two 
men.  Scenes,  almost  forgotten  during  the  years 
of  her  widowhood,  revived  in  her  memory. 
Phases  of  present  wedded  relations  brought 
back  vividly  analogous  phases  in  the  past. 
The  contrast  sometimes  produced  an  emotion 
that  seemed  too  great  for  self-containment,  and 
she  longed  to  open  her  heart  to  her  husband. 
But  she  dared  not.  Love  might  have  broken 
down  barriers,  but  not  the  grateful,  respectful 
affection  she  bore  the  Canon.  Besides,  beyond 
one  little  talk,  two  years  ago,  at  the  house  of 
Stephen's  mother  during  her  last  illness,  no 
mention  had  been  made  between  them  of  Ame- 
dee  Bazouge.  Man-like,  he  preferred  to  dis- 
miss the  circumstance  from  his  mind  as  un- 
pleasant. But  the  woman  found  pleasure  in 
remembering,  and  in  using  the  contrasts  to 
heighten  her  present  happiness. 

Thus  for  six  months  she  had  known  no 
trouble,  and  had  laughed  at  her  old  tremulous 

l62 


Counsels  of  Perfection 

misgivings  as  to  her  capacity  for  filling   her 
present  position. 

Suddenly,  one  afternoon  in  early  June,  as 
they  were  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  the  old 
Abbey,  cast  across  half  the  lawn,  the  Canon  laid 
down  the  review  he  was  reading  by  the  foot  of 
his  chair,  and,  deliberately  folding  his  gold 
pince-nez  and  thrusting  it  in  his  waistcoat, 
looked  at  her  and  said,  "Yvonne." 

She  closed  "  Le  Petit  Bob  "  with  a  snap,  and 
became  dutiful  and  smiling  attention. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,"  he  re- 
marked gravely ;  "  something  perhaps  pain- 
ful —  about  certain  possible  little  changes  in 
our  lives." 

"  Changes  ? "  echoed  Yvonne  blankly. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  wishing  to  speak  for  some 
months  past.  I  think,  dear,  you  ought  to  be 
more  serious,  and  give  me  greater  help  than  you 
have  done  hitherto.     Do  you  follow  me  ?  " 

If  the  quiet  Rectory  garden  had  suddenly 
been  transformed  into  a  Sahara,  and  the  golden 
kburnum  by  which  she  was  sitting,  into  a  pillar 
of  fire,  she  could  not  have  been  more  bewil- 
dered. But  she  felt  a  horrible  pain,  as  from  a 
stab,  and  the  tears  started  to  her  eyes. 

*'  No.     Not  at  all  —  what  is  it  ?  *' 
161 


Derelicts 

"  I  don't  wish  to  be  unkind  to  you,  Yvonne. 
I  am  only  speaking  from  a  sense  of  duty. 
Once  said,  it  will  be,  I  am  sure,  enough." 

"  But  what  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?  "  she  repeated 
pitcously.      "What  have  I  done  to  displease 

He  took  up  his  parable,  with  crossed  legs 
and  joined  finger  tips,  and  in  a  quiet,  unemo- 
tional voice  catalogued  her  failings.  She  was 
not  sufficiently  alive  to  the  deeper  responsibili- 
ties of  her  position.  Many  parochial  duties 
that  devolved  upon  the  Rector's  wife,  she  had 
left  undone.  She  took  no  pains  to  improve 
her  acquaintance  with  doctrinal  and  ecclesiasti- 
cal affairs. 

"  I  am  not  exaggerating,"  he  said,  "  for  you 
did  tell  the  Sunday-school  children  that  St. 
John  the  Baptist  was  present  at  the  Crucifixion, 
Yvonne,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

He  smiled,  as  if  to  soften  the  severity  of  his 
charges ;  but  Yvonne's  face  was  fixed  in  tragic 
dismay,  and  the  tears  were  rolling  down  her 
cheeks. 

He  rose  and  advanced  to  her  with  out- 
stretched arms.  She  obeyed  his  suggestion 
mechanically  and  allowed  herself  to  stand  in 
his  embrace. 

164 


Counsels  of  Perfection 

**  It  is  best  to  say  it  all  out  at  once,  Yvonne," 
he  said  gently.  "And  you  will  think  over 
it,  I  know.  You  must  n't  be  hurt,  littlt- 
wife." 

But  she  was  —  to  the  depths  of  her  heart. 
"  I  did  n't  know  you  were  not  pleased  with  me," 
she  said  with  trembling  lip.  "  I  thought  I  was 
doing  my  very  best  to  make  you  happy." 

"  And  you  have,  my  child  —  very  happy." 

"  Oh  no  —  I  have  n't.  I  will  try  to  do  wha  ; 
you  want,  Everard.  But  I  told  you  I  was  n't 
fit  for  you  —  I  can  do  nothing,  nothing  but 
just  sing  a  little.  But  I  will  try  Everard. 
Forgive  me." 

"  Freely,  freely,  dearest,"  said  the  magnani- 
mous man,  patting  her  on  the  shoulder. 
"  There,  there,"  he  added,  kissing  her  forehead. 
"It  pained  me  intensely  to  say  what  I  did. 
But  if  duties  were  always  pleasant,  it  would  be 
a  world  of  righteousness.  Dry  your  eyes  and 
smile,  Yvonne.  And  come  and  play  my 
accompaniment  for  a  few  minutes  before 
dinner." 

He  drew  her  arm  within  his  and  led  her  into 

the  house,  through  the  open  French  window, 

talking  of  trifles  to  assure  her  of  his  affectionate 

forgiveness.     It  was  not  in  Yvonne's  nature  to 

165 


Derelicts 

show  resentment.  She  fell  outwardly  Into  his 
humour,  and  thanked  him  sweetly  for  his  some- 
what exaggerated  attentions  in  arranging  the 
piano  and  music ;  but  as  she  played,  the  notes 
became  blurred. 

"  A  little  out  there,"  he  said,  standing  behind 
her,  his  violin  under  his  chin.  "  Let  us  go 
back  four  bars." 

She  struggled  on  bravely,  biting  her  lip  to 
'ceep  back  the  tears  that  would  come  and  ren- 
der the  page  illegible.  At  last  a  drop  fell  on  a 
black  note,  as  she  was  bending  her  head  towards 
the  music-book.  The  Canon  stopped  short  and 
laid  his  violin  and  bow  hastily  on  the  piano. 

"  My  dearest,"  he  exclaimed,  stooping  over 
her.  "  It  is  all  over.  Don't  be  unhappy.  I 
did  not  mean  to  be  unkind  to  you.  1  am 
afraid  I  was.  It  is  I  who  am  not  fit  for  so 
tender  and  sensitive  a  nature." 

He  sat  down  by  her  on  the  broad  piano-seat 
and  let  her  cry  upon  his  shoulder.  He  had  an 
uncomfortable  feeling  that  in  some  way  he  had 
been  brutal.  A  man  must  be  as  hard  as 
Mephistopheles  not  to  experience  this  sensa- 
tion the  first  time  he  makes  a  woman  cry. 
The  second  or  third  time  he  calls  his  attitude 
firmness ;  afterwards  he  characterises  her  con- 

i66 


Counsels  of  Perfection 

duct  as  unreasonable.  A  wise  woman  makes 
the  very  most  of  the  first  tears  of  her  married 
life.  But  Yvonne  was  not  a  wise  woman. 
She  dried  her  eyes  as  fast  as  she  could,  and  felt 
ashamed  and  humbled,  and  went  and  bathed 
them  in  eau-de-cologne  and  water,  and,  seeing 
that  the  Canon  desired  her  to  be  her  old  self, 
for  that  evening  at  any  rate,  did  her  best  to 
humour  him. 

After  this,  her  life  went  on,  not  unhappily, 
but  unlifted  by  the  buoyancy  of  the  first  six 
months.  Her  illusions  had  been  shattered. 
The  spontaneity  of  her  actions  was  checked. 
They  became  little  tasks,  whose  excellence  she 
could  not  judge  until  the  Canon  had  pro- 
nounced upon  them.  She  made  prodigious 
efforts  to  fulfil  his  wishes.  Some  met  with  suc- 
cess. Others,  such  as  attempts  at  parish  organ- 
isation, failed.  Mrs.  Winstanley,  like  Betsy 
Jane  in  Artemus  Ward's  book,  would  not  be 
reorganised.  The  Canon  intervened,  but  his 
cousin  stood  firm,  and  at  last  he  had  to  yield. 
In  district  visiting,  Yvonne  had  hard  struggles. 
If  she  had  carried  her  own  charming  insouci- 
ance into  working  homes,  she  would  have  won 
all  hearts.  But,  morbidly  conscious  of  the 
responsibilities  of  her  position,  she  judged  it 
167 


Derelicts 

her  duty  to  cast  frivolity  from  her  and  to  put 
on  the  serious  dignity  of  the  Rector*s  wife, 
which  fitted  her  as  easily  as  a  suit  of  armour. 
As  for  theology,  she  read  with  a  zeal  only 
equalled  by  her  incapacity  of  appreciating  the 
drift  of  the  science.  To  the  end  of  her  days 
Yvonne  could  see  no  other  difference  between 
a  Churchman  and  a  Dissenter,  except  that  one 
had  a  pretty  service  and  the  other  a  dull  one. 
So  closely,  however,  did  she  pursue  her  stud- 
ies that  the  Canon  took  pity  on  her,  and  came 
back  from  London  one  day  with  "  Gyp's  *'  latest 
production  in  his  pocket.  It  would  have  done 
an  archbishop  good  to  see  the  gleam  of  pleas- 
ure in  Yvonne's  eyes. 

Six  more  months  passed,  and  Yvonne  began 
to  weary  of  the  strain  of  self-improvement. 
The  sterner  side  of  the  Canon's  character 
showed  itself  in  a  hundred  little  ways.  Small 
censurings  became  frequent,  praise  difficult  to 
obtain.  With  the  Canon's  gracious  consent,  she 
despatched  at  last  an  invitation  to  Geraldine,  who 
had  already  paid  her  a  visit  in  the  spring.  But 
that  was  in  the  days  of  her  happiness. 

Geraldine  came,  and  her  keen  wit  very  soon 
penetrated  the  situation.  Yvonne  had  been 
too  loyal  to  complain. 

i68 


Counsels  of  Perfection 

"  You  Ve  just  got  to  tell  me  all  about  it,"  she 
said  in  her  determined  fashion. 

It  was  their  first  evening,  after  dinner,  as  soon 
as  the  Canon  had  gone  down  to  his  library. 

"  All  about  what,  Dina  ?  "   asked  Yvonne. 

"  Oh,  don't  pretend  not  to  know.  You 
were  as  happy  as  a  bird  when  I  was  here  last, 
and  now  you  don't  open  your  mouth." 

"  I  think  I  want  a  change,"  said  Yvonne. 
"  I  am  getting  too  respectable.  At  first,  you 
see,  everything  was  new,  and  now  I  have  got 
used  to  it.  I  think  if  I  could  run  about  London 
by  myself  for  a  month,  and  sing  at  lots  of  con- 
certs, it  would  do  me  good.  And  oh,  Dina  — 
I  should  so  much  like  to  hear  a  man  say 
*  damn  *  again  !  " 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  a  man,  but  I'  11  say  it  for 
you  —  damn,  damn,  damn.  Now  do  you  feel 
better?" 

"  Oh,  you  look  so  funny  as  you  say  It ! " 
cried  Yvonne,  with  a  laugh.  "  I  wish  it  was 
something  artistic  and  you  could  teach  it  to  the 
Canon." 

"  It  strikes  me.  If  I  were  to  set  about  it,  I 
could  teach   the  Canon  a  good  many  things. 
First  of  all,  what  a  treasure  he  has  got  —  whick 
he  does  n*t  seem  quite  aware  of," 
169 


Derelicts 

•*Oh,  Dina,  you  mustn't  say  that,"  said 
Yvonne,  looking  shocked.  "  He  is  all  kind- 
ness and  indulgence  —  really,  dear.  If  I  feel 
dull,  it  is  because  I  am  wicked  and  hanker 
after  frivolous  things  —  Van,  for  instance,  and 
a  comic  song.  Do  you  know  you  have  n't 
once  spoken  about  Van  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  talk  of  Van,"  said  Miss  Vicary ; 
"  I  am  getting  tired  of  him.  He  ..ever  knows 
his  mind  three  days  together.  If  I  was  n't  a 
fool  I  would  give  him  up  for  good  and  all." 

"  But  why  don't  you  marry  and  make  an 
end  of  it  ?  "  asked  Yvonne.  "  I  don't  under- 
stand." 

"  Ask  Van.  Don*t  ask  me.  There's  some- 
body else  now.     Elsie  Carnegie,  of  all  people." 

"  Poor  Dina." 

"  Oh,  not  at  all.  Dina  is  not  going  to  break 
her  heart  over  Van's  infidelities.  I  'm  quite 
content  as  I  am.  Only  I  'm  a  fool  —  there  ! 
I  've  never  told  you  I  was  a  fool  before, 
Yvonne.  That's  because  you  are  so  sedate 
and  respectable.  I  'm  getting  to  venerate 
you." 

"  I  should  like  to  talk  to  him  seriously 
about  it — for  his  good." 

"  Oh,  heavens,  my  child,  he  'd  be  falling  in 
170 


Counsels  of  Perfection 

love  with  you  again  and  having  the  whole 
artillery  of  the  Church  about  his  ears ! " 

Yvonne  laughed  gaily.  The  talk  was  doing 
her  good.  Geraldine's  forcible  phraseology 
was  a  tonic  after  the  pohter  accents  of  Ful- 
minster.  They  drifted  away  unconsciously 
from  the  main  subject  upon  which  they  had 
started.  Geraldine  had  many  things  to  tell  of 
the  doings  in  the  musical  world. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  I  was  back  for  a  little,"  cried 
poor  Yvonne.  "  Singing  in  a  amateur  way  is 
not  like  singing  professionally,  is  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  are  better  where  you  are," 
replied  Geraldine,  seriously,  "  in  spite  of  all 
things.     It  is  no  use  being  discontented." 

"  Not  a  bit,"  sighed  Yvonne.  She  was  silent 
for  a  little,  and  then  she  turned  round  to 
Geraldine. 

"  I  don't  think  you  would  do  very  well 
married,  Dina.  You  are  too  independent.  A 
woman  has  to  give  in  so  much^  you  know ;  and 
do  so  much  pretending,  which  you  could  never 
do." 

"  And  why  pretend  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know.  You  have  to —  in  lots 
of  things.  I  suppose  we  women  were  born  for 
It.  Men  have  all  kinds  of  strange  feelings,  and 
171 


i  .i 


Derelicts 

they  expect  us  to  have  the  same,  and  we  have  n't, 
Dina ;  and  yet  they  would  be  hurt  and  miser- 
able if  we  told  them  so  —  so  we  have  to 
pretend." 

Geraldine  looked  at  her  with  an  expression  of 
pain  on  her  strong  face,  and  then  she  bent 
down  —  Yvonne  was  on  a  low  stool  by  her  side 

—  and  flung  her  arms  about  her. 

"  Oh,  my  dear  little  philosopher,  I  wish  to 
God  you  could  have  loved  a  man  —  and  mar- 
ried him  !  That  is  happiness  —  no  need  ot 
pretending,  I  knew  it  once  —  years  ago.  It 
only  lasted  a  few  months,  for  he  died  before  we 
announced  our  marriage  —  no  one  has  ever 
known.  Only  you,  now,  dear.  Try  and  love 
your  husband,  dear  —  give  him  your  soul  and 
passion.  It  is  the  only  thing  I  can  tell  you  to 
help  you,  dear.  Then  all  the  troubles  will  go. 
Oh,  darling,  to  love  a  man  vehemently  —  they 
say  it  is  a  woman's  greatest  curse.  It  is  n't;  it 
is  the  greatest  blessing  of  God  on  her," 

"You  are  speaking  as  men  have  spoken," 
repUed  Yvonne,  in  a  whisper,  holding  her 
friend's  hand  tightly.      "  I  never  knew  before 

—  but  God  will  never  bless  me  —  like  that." 


172, 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE    OUTCAST    COUSIN 

The  autumn  hardened  into  winter  and  the 
winter  softened  into  spring,  and  the  relations 
between  Yvonne  and  the  Canon  seemed  to 
follow  the  seasons'  difference.  He  had  learned 
her  limitations  and  no  longer  set  her  tasks 
beyond  her  powers. 

"  You  must  not  try  to  put  a  butterfly  into 
harness,"  said  Mrs.  Winstanley,  who  had  grad- 
ually been  gaining  lost  influence.  He  had 
called  to  consult  her  upon  some  parochial  ques- 
tion and  the  talk  had  turned  upon  Yvonne. 
The  Canon  bit  his  lip.  He  had  fallen  into 
the  habit  of  making  confidences  and  regretting 
them  a  moment  afterwards. 

"  You  do  Yvonne  injustice." 

"  I  did  once,  I  grant,"  she  replied ;  "  but 
now,  as  you  see,  I  am  pleading  for  her." 

"  Yvonne  needs  no  advocate  with  me>"  said 
the  Canon,  stiffly. 

173 


Derelicts 

"  She  may." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Emmeline  ?  ** 

"If  you  don't  understand  her  nature,  you 
may  misinterpret  her  conduct.  You  see,  Ever- 
ard,  she  is  young  and  light-natured  —  and  so, 
like  seeks  like.  You  may  always  count  upon 
me  to  keep  things  straight  outside." 

She  had  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and 
spoke  in  her  quiet,  authoritative  voice.  Her 
manner  was  too  dignified  to  be  intrusive.  She 
was  eminently  the  woman  of  sense.  Her  refer- 
ence was  well  understood  by  him,  but  being  a 
man  accustomed  to  the  broad  issues  of  life,  he 
did  not  appreciate  the  delicate  pleasure  such  a 
conversation  afforded  her. 

On  this  occasion,  he  went  from  her  house 
straight  to  the  Rectory,  and  in  the  drawing- 
room  found  young  Evan  Wilmington  bidding 
good-bye  to  Yvonne.  Her  sunniest  smile 
yested  on  the  young  fellow ;  when  the  door 
shut  upon  him,  the  after-glow  of  amusement 
was  still  upon  her  face.  The  Canon  felt  an 
absurd  pang  of  jealousy.  Such  had  not  been 
infrequent  of  late,  since  he  had  abandoned  his 
scheme  of  reorganisation.  In  fact,  as  Yvonne 
had  fallen  from  his  conjugal  ideal  —  the  womar 
who,  as  an  impeccable  consort  and  mother  of  chil- 

174 


The  Outcast  Cousin 

dren  was  to  lend  added  dignity  to  his  days  —  his 
feelings  as  regards  her  had  been  grow'ng  more 
helplessly  human.  His  conception  of  the  dove- 
like  innocence  of  her  nature  had  suffered  no 
change.  Her  pure  voice  had  ever  been  to  him 
the  speech  of  a  purer  soul.  It  was  no  vulgar 
jealousy  that  pained  him ;  but  jealousy  it  was, 
all  the  same. 

He  went  to  her  and  put  his  hands  against 
her  cheeks  and  held  up  her  face. 

"  Don't  smile  too  much  on  young  Evan," 
he  said.  "It  is  not  good  for  him.  I  want  all 
your  best  smiles  for  myself,  sweetheart." 

"  He  has  been  making  me  laugh,"  said 
Yvonne. 

"  And  I  cannot  ?  " 

"  He  is  a  silly  boy  and  you  are  the  venerable 
Canon  Chisely." 

"  That 's  it,"  he  said,  rather  bitterly,  releas- 
ing her. 

Her  expression  changed.  She  caught  him, 
as  he  was  turning  away,  by  the  lappels  of  his 
coat. 

"  Are    you    serious,    Everard  ?      You    are  ! 
Forgive  me  if  I  have  hurt  you.     I  can't  bear 
to  do  it.     Do  you  wish  me  to  see  less  of  Mr, 
Wilmington  —  really  ?  " 
175 


Derelicts 

Looking  into  her  eyes  he  felt  ashamed  ot 
his  pettiness. 

"  See  your  friends  as  much  as  you  like,  my 
child,"  he  said,  with  a  revulsion  of  feeling. 

The  matter  was  settled  for  the  time  being, 
but  thenceforward  the  even  tenor  of  their  life 
was  disturbed  occasionally  by  such  outbursts. 
Once  he  grew  angry.  "  You  have  the  same 
smile  for  any  man  who  speaks  to  you,  Yvonne." 

She  replied  with  gentle  logic,  "  That  ought 
to  prove  that  I  like  all  equally." 

"  Your  husband  included." 

She  turned  away  wounded.  "  You  have  no 
right  to  say  that." 

"  Then  what  have  I  a  right  to  say,  Yvonne  ?  " 

"Anything,"  she  cried,  facing  him  with 
brightening  eyes,  "  anything  except  that  I  do 
not  try  with  all  my  heart  and  soul  to  be  a  good 
wife  to  you." 

This  time  it  was  he  who  said  "  Forgive  me." 

Unconsciously  her  influence  grew  upon  him 
in  his  lighter  moods,  as  he  excluded  her  from 
participation  in  his  serious  concerns.  To  win 
from  her  a  flash  other  than  dutiful  he  would 
humour  any  caprice.  Yvonne  was  too  shrewd 
not  to  perceive  this.  His  tenderness  touched 
her,  saddened  her  a  little.  On  her  birthday  he 
176 


The  Outcast  Cousin 

gave  her  a  pair  of  tiny  ponies  and  a  diminutive 
phaeton  —  a  perfect  turn-out.  He  lived  for  a 
week  on  the  delight  in  her  face  when  they  were 
brought  round  (an  absolute  surprise)  to  the 
front  door.  Yet  that  evening  she  said,  with 
her  little  air  of  seriousness,  after  she  had  been 
meditating  for  some  time  in  silence,  with  puck- 
ered brow :  — 

"  I  wonder  if  I  am  quite  such  a  child  as  you 
think  me,  Everard.  I  should  like  something 
to  happen  to  show  you  that  I  am  a  woman." 

"  Don't  say  that,  dear,"  he  replied,  content- 
edly, holding  up  his  glass  of  port  to  the  light 
and  peering  into  it  —  he  was  a  specialist  in 
ports  —  **such  a  chance  would  probably  be 
some  calamity." 

Yvonne  was  not  alone  in  noting  the  true 
inwardness  of  the  Canon's  course  of  action. 
Mrs.  WinstanJey  did  so,  to  her  own  chagrin. 
The  ponies  were  as  distasteful  to  her  as  the 
beast  of  the  Apocalypse.  She  was  with  Lady 
Santyre,  in  the  latter's  barouche,  when  she  first 
saw  them,  Yvonne,  aglow  with  the  effort  of 
driving,  was  sending  them  down  the  Fulminster 
Road  at  a  rattling  pace.  She  nodded  brightly 
as  she  passed,  pointing  to  the  ponies  with  her 
whip. 


Derelicts 

"  How  fond  the  dear  Canon  Is  of  that  little 
woman,"  said  Lady  Santyre,  her  thin  lips  clos- 
ing as  if  on  an  acidulated  drop. 

"  Psha !  "  said  Mrs.  Winstanley,  with  one  of 
her  rare  exhibitions  of  temper.  "If  he  were  a 
few  years  older,  it  would  be  senile  infatuation  ! 
She  is  beginning  to  curl  him  round  her  finger." 

But  there  was  one  subject  near  to  Yvonne's 
heart  on  which  the  Canon  was  inflexible  — 
Joyce.  Often  Yvonne  had  sought  to  soften  him 
toward  the  black  sheep,  but  in  his  gentlest 
moods  the  mention  of  his  cousin's  name 
turned  him  to  adamant.  He  even  resented 
Yvonne's  helpful  friendship  before  her  mar- 
riage. On  the  afternoon  that  he  had  passed 
Joyce  on  the  stairs,  he  had  spoken  as  strongly 
to  Yvonne  as  good  taste  permitted.  Now  that 
he  had  authority  over  her,  he  forbade  her  to 
hold  further  communication  with  the  man  who 
had  disgraced  his  name.  Finally  she  aban- 
doned her  attempts  at  conciliation,  but  pity 
prevailing  over  wifely  obedience,  she  kept  up 
her  correspondence  with  Joyce,  unknown  to 
the  Canon.  That  is  to  say,  she  wrote  cheery, 
gossipy  letters  now  and  then  to  the  address  she 
had  received  from  Cape  Town,  trusting  to  luck 
for  their  ultimate  delivery,  but  receiving  very 

178 


The  Outcast  Cousin 

few  in  return,  for  Joyce  had  often  not  the  heart 
to  write. 

She  was  reading,  one  day,  his  last  letter, 
many  pages  closely  filled.  It  had  come  that 
morning,  under  Miss  Vicary's  cover,  according 
to  her  request.  The  envelope  lay  on  the  table 
in  the  centre  of  the  room  ;  but  she  had  taken 
the  letter  to  the  broad,  cushioned  window-seat, 
her  favjurite  place  in  summer,  where  she  could 
see  the  old  abbey,  and  enjoy  the  scent  of  the 
mignonette  and  syringa  from  the  beds  below. 
It  was  the  quiet  afternoon  hour,  before  tea, 
when  she  generally  read  or  idled  or  sang  to 
herself.  She  was  at  peace  with  all  the  world, 
and  her  heart  was  full  of  pity  for  Joyce. 

Yet  it  was  the  most  hopeful  of  the  four 
letters  she  had  received  from  him.  The  pre- 
vious ones  had  told  of  struggles  and  privations 
innumerable ;  the  aimless  tramp  from  one 
town  to  another  in  the  search  for  more  than 
starvation  wages  ;  the  hopeless  attempts  to  live 
in  mining  camps,  where  unskilled  labour  was  a 
drug  in  the  market ;  sickness,  and  the  dwind- 
ling of  his  little  capital.  This  one  took  up 
the  tale  broken  off  some  months  before. 
Noakes  and  himself  had  left  the  mines,  had 
wandered,  sometimes  alone,  sometimes  with 
179. 


Derelicts 

other  adventurers,  Into  Bechuanaland,  where  he 
had  purchased  with  his  last  remaining  pounds  a 
share  in  a  small  farm.  It  was  a  haven  of  rest. 
But  the  country  was  unhealthy.  The  work 
was  hard.  Noakes  lay  ill  in  bed ;  medical 
advice  was  a  hundred  and  fifty  miles  away. 
To  cheer  the  invalid,  he  had  schemed  out  a 
novel  on  the  life  they  had  recently  passed 
through,  and  was  writing  it  at  nights  for  Noakes 
to  read  during  the  day.  He  was  writing  it  on 
a  bundle  of  yellow  package-paper  which  had 
remained  over  from  the  stock  of  a  small  "  store  " 
once  run  by  the  chief  owner  of  the  farm. 

He  spoke  of  the  comfort  of  her  letters. 
Four  of  them  had  just  come  to  his  hands  at 
once.  He  had  read  them  aloud  to  Noakes, 
who  was  even  more  friendless  than  himself. 
Yvonne's  heart  was  touched  at  the  thought  of 
the  poor  man  who  never  got  a  letter,  and  had 
to  extract  vicarious  comfort  from  his  friend's. 
She  knew  him  quite  well  through  Joyce's 
description,  and  loved  him  for  the  quaint  lov- 
ableness  that  appeared  in  the  narrative  of  their 
joint  fortunes. 

"He  shall  have  a  letter  all  to  himself,'*  said 
Yvonne  aloud ;  and  she  rose  to  put  her  idea 
into  execution. 

i8o 


The  Outcast  Cousin 

But  just  as  she  was  bringing  her  writing 
materials  to  the  window-seat,  which  was  strewn 
with  the  sheets  of  Joyce's  letter,  the  Canon 
came  into  the  room. 

"  Can  you  give  me  some  tea  quickly,  dear  ?  " 
he  said,  ringing  the  bell.  "  I  am  called  away 
to  Bickerton." 

He  sank  into  a  chair  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 
It  had  been  a  busy  day  and  the  weather  was 
hot. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  drive  you  over  ? " 
asked  Yvonne. 

"  Dearly,"  said  the  Canon.  He  leaned 
back,  and  stretched  out  his  hand  in  a  gesture 
of  contented  invitation. 

"It  won't  be  taking  you  from  your  corre- 
spondence? You  seem  up  to  your  eyes  in 
it." 

"Oh,  it  can  wait,"  said  Yvonne,  smiling 
down  upon  him  as  he  held  her  hand. 

Soon  the  servant  brought  the  tea,  ancl 
Yvonne  established  herself  over  the  tea-cups. 
The  Canon,  whilst  waiting,  glanced  idly  at  the 
books  and  odds  and  ends  on  the  table  by  his. 
side.  Suddenly  he  uttered  an  exclamation  of 
surprise.  He  had  become  aware  of  the  foreign 
envelope,  with  the  Cape  Colony  stamp  and  i*^' 
i8i 


Derelicts 

address  to  "  Mrs.  Chisely,  care  of  Miss  Vicary.** 
He  also  recognised  Joyce's  handwriting  which 
happened  to  be  singularly  striking  in  character. 
His  brow  grew  dark. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  this,  Yvonne?  " 

"  A  letter  from  Stephen,"  she  replied  with  a 
sudden  qualm. 

"  And  sent  to  you  clandestinely.  You  have 
been  corresponding  with  him  secretly  in  defi- 
ance of  my  express  desire.  How  dared  you 
do  it?" 

He  spoke  in  harsh  tones,  bending  upon  her 
all  the  hardness  of  a  stern  face.  She  had  never 
seen  him  angered  like  this  before.  She  was 
frightened,  but  she  steadied  herself  and  looked 
him  in  the  face. 

"  I  could  n't  help  it,  Everard,"  she  said, 
gently.  "  The  poor  fellow  regards  me  as  his 
t^nly  friend.      I  was  forced  to  disobey  you." 

"  That  poor  fellow  has  been  guilty  of  mean 
robbery.  He  has  herded  with  ruffians  in  a 
common  gaol.  He  has  dragged  an  old  hon- 
oured name  through  the  mire.  For  a  man  like 
that  —  once  a  knave  always  a  knave.  I  don't 
choose  to  have  my  wife  keeping  up  friendly 
relations  with  an  outcast  member  of  my  family. 
i  am  deeply  offended  with  you  —  I  pass  over 
1 82 


The   Outcast   Cousin 

the  underhand  nature  of  the  correspondence, 
which  in  itself  deserves  reprobation." 

"  I  believe  in  Stephen,"  replied  Yvonne, 
growing  very  white.  "  He  has  been  punished 
a  thousand  times  over.  He  will  live  an  hon- 
ourable man  to  the  end  of  his  life.  And  if 
you  read  how  he  speaks  of  the  few  silly  letters 
I  have  written  him  —  his  joy  and  gratitude  — 
you  would  not  wish  to  deprive  him  of  them." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  are  deliber- 
ately setting  yourself  in  opposition  to  my 
wishes,  Yvonne  ?  "  asked  the  Canon  in  angry 
surprise. 

Yvonne  was  in  great  distress.  She  could 
not  defy  him  openly,  and  yet  she  knew  that 
no  power  on  earth  would  prevent  her  from  do- 
ing Joyce  her  little  deeds  of  mercy. 

She  looked  at  him  piteously  for  a  moment, 
and  then  sank  by  his  chair  and  clasped  his 
knees.  "  I  can't  do  what  you  want,  Everard," 
she  cried.  "  We  were  such  friends  in  days 
past  —  And  when  I  met  him  again,  he  looked 
so  broken  and  lonely  —  I  could  n't  in  my 
heart  let  him  go  —  and  having  given  him  my 
friendship,  I  can't  be  so  cruel  as  to  take  it  from 
him  now.  I  can't  feel  what  you  do  about  the 
disgrace.  I  have  n't  the  capacity  perhaps. 
183 


Derelicts 

And  I  promised  his  dead  mother  to  be  kind  to 
him.  I  did  indeed,  Everard  —  and  a  promise 
like  that  I  must  keep." 

He  put  her  not  unkindly  from  him  and, 
rising  to  his  feet,  took  two  or  three  turns  about 
the  room.     Stopping,  he  said :  — 

"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me  of  this  promise 
before?" 

"  I  was  afraid  to  vex  you,"  said  Yvonne. 

"  You  have  vexed  me  much  more  by  deceiv- 
ing me,"  he  replied. 

But  there  the  matter  had  to  end.  He  could 
not  bid  her  break  her  word,  nor  would  he 
allow  himself  to  yield  to  a  tempting  sophistry 
that  women's  ante-nuptial  promises  were  an- 
nulled by  marriage.  To  regain  his  good  graces, 
however,  Yvonne  pledged  herself  never  to  in- 
tercede with  him  on  Joyce's  behalf  in  the 
future  —  in  fact  to  preserve  an  absolute  silence 
concerning  the  black  sheep  and  his  doings. 

This  settled,  she  drove  him  over  to  Bicker- 
ton  in  her  pony  carriage.  And  the  even  tenor 
of  her  life  went  on. 

It  was  many  weeks  before  the  letters  arrived 
at  the  farm  in  South  Africa.     The   monthly 
ox-waggons  that  came  from  the  nearest  post- 
184 


The  Outcast  Cousin 

town  brought  them,  together  with  the  usual 
load  qH  farm  and  household  requisites,  tinned 
provisions,  and  liquors.  Day  after  day,  Joyce 
had  stood  by  the  prickly-pear  hedge  on  the  rise 
behind  the  house,  looking  over  the  dreary 
plain,  in  wistful  watch  for  the  specks  on 
the  horizon  that  alone  connected  him  with 
civilisation.  They  arrived  at  night  —  i  blus- 
tering August  night,  with  frost  in  the  air, 
and  a  cloudless  sky  in  which  the  Southern 
Cross  gleamed.  Before  waiting  to  help  unload 
and  outspan  the  teams,  he  rushed  into  the 
house  with  the  meagre  post-bundle.  It  con- 
tained a  few  colonial  newspapers,  some  letters 
for  Wilson,  the  farmer  who  was  away,  and  the 
two  letters  from  Fulminster.  The  rough  table, 
on  which  he  sorted  them  by  the  light  of  a 
flaring  chimneyless  lamp,  was  drawn  up  to 
the  bedside  of  Noakes. 

"  One  for  you,  old  man,"  said  Joyce. 

"  For  me  ?  " 

Noakes  stretched  out  his  thin  arm  eagerly, 
and  clutched  the  undreamed  of  prize. 

"  From  Yvonne.  It 's  to  cheer  you  up,  old 
chap,  I  expect.     It 's  just  like  her,  you  know.** 

Joyce  ran  through  his  letter  rapidly  and 
went  out  to  superintend  the  unloading.  But 
i8s 


Derelicts 

Noakes,  who  was  past  work,  remained  in  bed 
and  pored  over  Yvonne's  simple  lines  till  the 
tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

When  all  was  settled,  the  stores  taken  in, 
the  teams  secured,  the  natives  who  had  driven 
them  established  in  the  huts,  and  finally  the 
Englishman  in  charge  provided  with  food  and 
whisky  and  sent  to  sleep,  Joyce  sat  down  by 
his  friend's  side  and  gave  himself  up  to  the 
greatest  pleasure  his  life  then  held.  The  wind 
howled  outside,  and  the  draught  swept  in 
through  the  cracks  on  the  doors,  and  the  ill- 
fitting  windows,  and  up  the  rude  chimney  be- 
neath which  a  fire  was  smouldering.  Noakes 
coughed  incessantly.  The  atmosphere  was 
tainted  with  the  smell  of  the  lamp,  the  thin 
smoke  from  the  fuel,  the  piles  of  sacking 
and  mealy-bags  that  lay  in  corners  of  the 
room,  and  the  strips  of  bultong  or  dried  beef 
hanging  in  the  gloom  of  the  rafters.  The 
room  itself,  occupying  nearly  the  whole  area  of 
the  ground-floor  of  the  rudely  built  wooden 
house,  was  cheerless  in  aspect.  The  table,  two 
or  three  wooden  chairs,  some  shelves  holding 
cooking  utensils  and  odds  and  ends  of  crock- 
ery, a  litter  of  stores  and  boxes,  a  frameless 
dirty  oleograph  of  the  bubble-blowing  boy,  a 

1 86 


The  Outcast  Cousin 

churchman's  almanac,  two  years  old,  against  the 
wall,  and  Noakes's  sack  bed  —  that  was  all  the 
room  contained.  In  a  corner  was  a  ladder 
leading  to  the  loft,  where  Joyce  and  the  farmer 
slept,  and  whence  now  came  the  muffled  sounds 
of  the  snoring  of  the  English  driver.  But  for 
a  few  moments  Joyce  forgot  the  cheerless 
surroundings. 

He  sat  late  with  Noakes,  reading  the  letters 
aloud  and  talking  of  Yvonne.  At  last,  after  a 
short  silence,  Noakes  raised  himself  on  his 
elbow  and  gazed  earnestly  at  his  friend.  He 
was  very  gaunt  and  wasted  — 

"  That 's  the  only  tender  thing  a  woman  has 
ever  done  for  me,"  he  said.  "  No,"  he  added 
in  reply  to  Joyce's  questioning  look,  "  my  wife 
was  never  tender.  God  knows  why  she  mar- 
ried me." 

"  We  '11  make  our  fortunes  and  go  back,  and 
you  shall  know  her,"  said  Joyce. 

"  No.  I  shall  never  go  back.  I  shall 
never  get  half  a  mile  beyond  this  door  again." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Joyce.  "  You  '11  pull 
round  when  the  spring  comes." 

"I  have  performed  my  allotted  task.  It  was 
a  severe  portion  and  it  has  finished  me  off." 

"  Look  here,  old  man,"  cried  Joyce,  "  for 
187 


Derelicts 

God's  sake  don't  talk  like  that.  I  can't  live 
in  this  accursed  place  by  myself.  You  've 
been  broken  down  by  our  hard  times  —  but 
you  '11  get  over  it  all,  with  this  long  rest." 

"  I  am  going  to  a  longer  one,  Joyce.  I 
don't  mind  going,  you  know.  And  then  you  '11 
be  free  of  me.  I  am  but  a  cumberer  of  the 
ground  —  I  am  of  no  use  —  I  never  have  been 
of  any  use  —  I  have  been  carrying  water  in  a 
sieve  all  my  life." 

He  began  to  cough.  Joyce  put  his  arm 
around  him  for  support,  and  tended  him 
gently. 

"You  have  a  lot  to  do,  old  man,"  he  said 
soon  after.  "  The  foolscap  has  come,  and  a 
great  jar  of  ink,  and  you  can  start  copying  out 
the  manuscript  to-morrow." 

"  Ah  yes,  I  can  do  that,"  said  Noakes. 

"  Now  go  to  sleep.  I  '11  sit  by  you,  if  you 
like,"  said  Joyce. 

He  moved  the  lamp  to  a  ledge  behind 
Noakes's  head,  and  sat  down  near  by,  with  the 
budget  of  newspapers.  Noakes  composed 
himself  to  sleep.  At  last  he  spoke,  without 
turning  round. 

"  Joyce." 

"  Yes,  old  man." 

1 88 


The   Outcast   Cousin 

"  Make  me  a  promise." 

"  Willingly." 

"  Bury  that  dear  lady's  letter  with  mc." 

"  Will  it  make  you  happy  to  promise  ?  ** 

"  Yes." 

"Then  I  promise,"  said  Joyce,  humouring 
him.  "  Now  I  'm  not  going  to  talk  to  you 
any  more." 

A  few  mmutes  later,  his  breathing  told  Joyce 
that  he  slept.  The  newspapers  fell  from 
Joyce's  hand,  and  he  put  his  elbows  on  his 
knees  and  crouched  over  the  smouldering  logs. 
Noakes  spoke  truly.  There  was  little  chance 
of  recovery.  He  would  be  left  alone  again 
soon.  It  would  be  very  comfortless.  The 
poor  wreck  who  was  dragging  out  his  last 
days  upon  that  wretched  bed  had  been  an  un- 
speakable solace  to  him.  Without  his  woman- 
like devotion  he  would  have  died  of  fever  six 
months  back  on  the  Arato  goldfield.  Without 
the  influence  of  his  calm  fatalism,  he  would 
have  given  up  heart  long  ago.  Without  his 
steadfast  purity  of  soul,  he  would  have  gont 
recklessly  to  the  devil.  The  thought  of  losing 
him  was  a  great  pang. 

He  himself,  too,  was  far  from  strong.  The 
climate,  the  hard  manual  labour  for  which  he 

i8g 


Derelicts 

was  physically  unfit  were  telling  upon  him 
heavily.  He  yearned  for  home,  for  civilised 
life,  for  the  lost  heritage  of  honour.  Yvonne's 
'etter,  telling  of  ♦■he  Httle  commonplaces  of  the 
lost  sweet  life  of  decent  living,  liad  revived  the 
ever  dormant  longing.  He  began  to  dream  of 
her,  of  that  last  day  he  had  seen  her,  of  her 
voice  singing  Gounod's  serenade. 

It  was  difficult  to  picture  her  as  married  to 
his  cousin  Everard,  whom,  in  the  days  of  his 
vanity,  he  had  despised  as  a  prig  and  now 
dreaded  as  a  scornful  benefactor.  It  was  a 
strange  mating.  And  yet  she  seemed  happy 
and  unchanged. 

The  wind  blustered  outside.  The  cold 
draught  whistled  through  the  room.  Joyce 
rose  to  his  feet  with  a  shiver,  went  to  a  corner 
for  a  couple  of  sacks,  which  he  threw  over  the 
sleeping  man,  and,  after  having  wistfully  read 
Yvonne's  letter  once  more,  ascended  the  ladder 
to  the  loft,  where  the  shapeless  mattress  of 
dried  grass  and  sacking  awaited  him. 


190 


CHAPTER    XU 

HISTOIRE    DE    REVENANT 

OsTEND  is  a  magnificent  white  Kursaal  on  the 
Belgian  coast.  Certain  requisites  are  attached 
to  it  in  the  way  of  great  hotels  and  villas  along 
a  tiled  digue^  and  innumerable  bathing-machines 
on  the  sands  below.  There  is  an  old  town,  it 
is  true,  somewhere  behind  it,  with  quaint  nar- 
row streets,  a  Place  d'Armes  dotted  round  with 
cafes,  and  a  thronged  market-square ;  there  is 
also  a  bustling  port  and  a  fishing  population. 
But  the  Ostend  of  practical  life  begins  and 
ends  at  the  Kursaal.  Were  it  to  perish  during 
a  night,  the  following  day  would  see  the  exodus 
of  twenty  thousand  visitors.  The  vast  glass 
rotunda  can  hold  thousands.  Within  its  pre- 
cincts you  can  do  anything  in  reason  and  out 
of  reason.  You  can  knit  all  day  long  like 
Penelope,  or  you  can  go  among  the  Sirens  with 
or  without  the  precautions  of  Ulysses.  Yo* 
can  consume  anything  from  a  biscuit  to  a  ten- 

igi 


Derelicts 

course  dinner.  You  can  play  dominoes  at 
centime  points  or  roulette  with  a  forty-franc 
minimum.  You  can  listen  to  music,  you  can 
dance,  you  can  go  to  sleep.  You  can  write 
letters,  send  telegrams,  and  open  a  savings- 
bank  account.  By  moving  to  one  side  or  the 
other  of  a  glass  screen  you  can  sit  in  the  warm 
sunshine  or  in  the  keen  sea  wind.  You  can 
study  the  fashions  of  Europe  from  St.  Peters- 
burg to  Dublin,  and  if  you  are  a  woman,  you 
can  wear  the  most  sumptuous  garments  Provi- 
dence has  deigned  to  bestow  on  you.  And 
lastly,  if  you  are  looking  for  a  place  where  you 
will  be  sure  to  find  the  very  last  person  in  the 
world  you  desire  to  see,  you  will  meet  with 
every  success  at  the  Kursaal  of  Ostend. 

Such  was  Mrs.  Winstanley's  passing  thought 
one  day.  She  was  there  with  Sophia  and  Evan 
Wilmington.  It  was  always  a  great  pleasure, 
she  used  to  say,  to  have  young  people  about 
her;  and  very  naturally,  since  young  people 
can  be  particularly  useful  in  strange  places  to  a 
middle-aged  lady.  The  brother  and  sister 
fetched  and  carried  for  her  all  day  long,  which 
was  very  nice  and  suitable,  and  Mrs.  Winstan- 
Icy  was  in  her  most  affable  mood.  On  the 
day  in  question,  however,  she  saw,  to  her  a9« 
193 


Histoire  de   Revenant 

tonishment  and  annoyance,  Canon  Chisely  and 
Yvonne  making  their  way  towards  her  through 
the  crowded  hnes  of  tables. 

"  Good  gracious,  Everard ! "  she  said  as 
they  came  up.  "  How  did  you  find  your 
way  here?  I  thought  you  were  going  to 
Switzerland." 

"  So  we  are,"  replied  the  Canon.  "  We 
have  broken  our  journey.  And  as  for  getting 
here,  we  took  the  boat  from  Dover  and  then 
walked." 

"  The  frivolity  of  the  place  is  infecting  you 
already.  Canon,"  cried  Sophia,  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  hope  you  are  going  to  stay  a  long  time." 

"  Oh,  not  too  long,"  said  Yvonne.  "It 
would  n't  be  fair  to  the  Canon,  who  needs 
some  mountain  air.  This  is  just  a  little  treat 
all  for  me." 

She  glanced  at  him  affectionately  as  she 
spoke.  It  was  good  of  him  to  tarry  for  her 
sake  in  this  Vanity  Fair  of  a  place. 

"  We  were  going  by  Calais,  as  you  know," 
said  the  Canon,  explanatively  to  Mrs.  Win- 
stanley.  **  We  only  changed  our  minds  a  day 
or  two  ago  —  we  thought  it  would  be  a  little 
surprise  for  you." 

"Of  course  it  is  —  a  delightful  one  —  to  see 
«J  193 


Derelicts 

dear  Yvonne  and  yourself.  Where  are  you 
staying  ? " 

"  At  the  Ocean,"  said  the  Canon,  "  and  you 
must  all  come  and  dine  with  us  this  evening." 

"  And  will  you  come  to  the  bal  here  after- 
ward ?  "  asked  Sophia.  "  Evan  has  run  across 
some  college  friends  —  or  won't  you  think  it 
proper  ? " 

"  I  am  going  to  wear  the  whole  suit  of  mot- 
ley while  I  am  here,"  replied  the  Canon  gaily. 

He  kept  his  word,  not  being  a  man  of  half 
measures.  No  check  should  be  placed  on 
Yvonne's  enjoyment.  She  had  been  moping, 
as  far  as  Yvonne  could  mope,  during  the  latter 
dullness  of  Fulminster  ;  now  she  expanded  like 
a  flower  to  the  gaiety  around  her.  The 
Canon  found  an  sesthetic  pleasure  in  watching 
her  happiness.  Her  expressions  of  thanks  too 
were  charmingly  conveyed.  Since  that  unfor- 
tunate attempt  on  his  part,  over  a  twelvemonth 
back,  to  instruct  her  in  the  responsibilities  of 
her  position,  she  had  never  exhibited  toward 
him  such  spontaneous  feeling.  He  let  her 
smile  upon  whom  she  would,  without  a  twinge 
of  jealousy. 

Yvonne  enjoyed  herself  hugely.  She  danced 
and  jested  with  the  young  men  ;  she  chattered 

194 


Histoire   de   Revenant 

in  French  to  her  table  d'hote  neighbours,  de- 
lighted to  speak  her  mother's  tongue  again ; 
she  staked  two-franc  pieces  on  the  public  table, 
and  one  afternoon  came  out  of  the  gaming-room 
into  the  great  hall  where  the  Canon  was  sitting 
with  Mrs.  Winstanley,  and  poured  a  great  mass 
of  silver  on  to  the  table  —  as  much  as  her 
two  small  hands  joined  could  carry. 

"  I  thought  gambling  was  against  your  prin- 
ciples, Everard,"  said  Mrs.  Winstanley,  after 
Yvonne  had  gone  again. 

"  I  am  sacrificing  them  for  my  wife's  happi- 
ness, Emmeline,"  he  replied,  with  a  touch  of 
irony. 

"  Yes,  it  would  be  a  pity  to  spoil  her  pleasure. 
She  is  such  a  child." 

"  I  wish  we  all  had  something  of  her  nature," 
said  the  Canon. 

Mrs.  Winstanley  noted  the  snub.  She  was 
treasuring  up  many  resentments  against  Yvonne. 
In  her  heart  she  considered  herself  a  long-suf- 
fering woman. 

"  You  seem  to  enjoy  it  too,  Everard,"  said 
Yvonne  to  him  that  evening.  They  were  sit- 
ting near  the  entrance  watching  the  smartly- 
dressed  people.  "  And  I  am  so  glad  to  be 
alone  with  you." 

195 


Derelicts 

He  was  pleased,  smiled  at  her,  and  throwing 
off  his  dignity,  entered  into  the  frivolous  spirit 
of  the  place.  Yvonne  forgot  the  restraint  she 
had  always  put  upon  her  tongue  when  talking 
to  him.  She  chattered  about  everything,  hold- 
ing her  face  near  him,  so  as  to  be  heard  through 
the  hubbub  of  thousands  of  voices,  the  eternal 
shuffling  of  passing  feet,  and  the  crash  of  the 
orchestra  in  the  far  gallery. 

"  It  is  a  Revue  des  Deux  MondeSy*  she  said, 
looking  rapidly  around  her,  with  bright  eyes. 

"  How  ?  "  asked  the  Canon. 

"The  beau  and  the  demi"  she  replied, 
wickedly.  She  shook  his  knee.  "  Oh,  do 
look  at  that  woman !  what  does  she  think  a 
man  can  see  in  her ! " 

"  Powder,"  answered  the  Canon.  "  She  has 
been  using  her  puff  too  freely." 

"  She  has  been  putting  it  on  with  a  muff,^* 
cried  Yvonne. 

He  laughed.  Yvonne  had  such  a  triumphant 
air  In  delivering  herself  of  little  witticisms. 

A  magnificently  dressed  woman,  in  a  great 
feathered  hat  and  low-dress,  with  diamonds 
gleaming  at  her  neck,  passed  by.  "  You  are 
right,  I  fear,  about  the  two  worlds,"  said  the 
Canon. 

196 


Histoire  de   Revenant 

"  Are  n't  there  crowds  of  them  ?  I  like  to 
look,  at  them  because  they  wear  such  beautiful 
things.  And  they  fit  so.  And  then  to  rub 
shoulders  with  them  makes  one  feel  so  de- 
lightfully wicked.  You  know,  I  knew  a  girl 
once  —  she  went  in  for  that  life  of  her  own 
accord  and  she  was  awfully  happy.  Really. 
Is  n't  it  odd  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Yvonne ! "  said  the  Canon,  some- 
what shocked,  "  I  sincerely  trust  you  did  not 
continue  the  acquaintance,  afterwards." 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  sagely.  "  It  would 
not  hare  done  for  me  at  all.  A  lone  woman 
can't  be  too  careful.  But  I  used  to  hear  about 
her  from  my  dressmaker." 

Her  point  of  view  was  not  exactly  the 
Canon's.  But  further  discussion  was  stopped 
by  the  arrival  of  the  Wilmingtons,  who  carried 
off  Yvonne  to  the  dancing-room.  The  Canon, 
drawing  the  line  at  his  own  appearance  there, 
strolled  back  contentedly  to  the  hotel  to  finish 
the  evening  over  a  book. 

Two  mornings  afterwards  Yvonne  was  walk- 
ing by  herself  along  the  digue.  They  were  to 
leave  for  Switzerland  the  next  day,  and  she, 
determined  to  make  the  most  of  her  remaining 
time.  Sophia  Wilmington,  for  whom  she  had 
197 


Derelicts 

called,  had  already  gone  out.  The  Canon,  who 
was  engaged  over  his  correspondence,  she  was 
to  meet  later  at  the  Kursaal.  It  was  a  lovely 
morning.  The  line  of  white  hotels,  with  their 
al  fresco  breakfast  tables  spread  temptingly  on 
the  terraces,  gleamed  in  the  sun.  The  digue 
was  bright  with  summer  dresses.  The  sands 
below  alive  with  tennis  players,  children  making 
sand-castles,  and  loungers,  and  bathers,  and 
horses  moving  among  the  bathing-machines. 
Yvonne  tripped  along  with  careless  tread.  Her 
heart  was  in  harmony  with  the  brightness  and 
movement  and  the  glint  of  the  sun  on  the  sea. 
Once  a  man,  meeting  her  smiling  glance,  hesi- 
tated as  if  to  speak  to  her,  but  seeing  that  the 
smile  was  addressed  to  the  happy  world  in 
general,  he  passed  on  his  way.  It  was  easy  to 
kill  time.  She  went  down  the  Rue  Flammande 
and  looked  at  the  shops.  The  jewelry  and  the 
models  of  Paris  dresses  delighted  her.  The 
display  of  sweets  at  Nopenny's  allured  her 
within.  When  she  returned  to  the  digue^  it 
was  time  to  seek  the  Canon  at  the  Kursaal. 

The  liveried  attendants  lifted  their  hats  as 
she  ran  up  the  steps  and  passed  the  barrier. 
She  gave  them  a  smiling  "  bonjour."  Neither 
the  Canon  nor  any  of  the  friends  being  visible 

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Histoire   de   Revenant 

on  the  verandah,  she  entered  the  great  hall, 
where  the  morning  instrumental  concert  was 
going  on.  She  scanned  the  talking,  laughing 
crowd  as  she  passed  through.  Many  eyes 
followed  her.  For  Yvonne,  when  happy,  was 
sweet  to  look  upon.  She  was  turning  back  to 
retrace  her  steps,  when,  suddenly,  a  man  started 
up  from  a  group  of  three  who  were  playing 
cards  and  drinking  absinthe  at  a  small  table, 
and  placed  himself  before  her. 

"  Tiens  !  cest  Yvonne  I  " 

She  stared  at  him  with  dilated  eyes  and 
parted  lips  and  uttered  a  little  gasping  cry. 
Seeing  her  grow  deadly  white  and  thinking  she 
was  going  to  faint,  the  man  put  out  his  arm. 
But  Yvonne  was  mistress  of  herself. 

"  Allans  d'iciy'  she  whispered,  turning  a  ter- 
rified glance  around. 

The  man  raised  his  hat  to  his  companions 
and  signed  to  her  to  come.  He  was  a  hand- 
some, careless,  dissipated-looking  fellow,  with 
curly  hair  and  a  twirled  black  moustache ; 
short  and  slightly  made.  He  wore  a  Tyrolese 
hat  and  a  very  low  turned-down  collar  and  a 
great  silk  bow  outside  his  waistcoat.  There 
was  a  devil-may-care  charm  in  his  swagger  as 
he  walked  —  also  an  indefinable  touch  of 
199 


Derelicts 

vulgarity ;    the    type    of   the   cabotin   in    easy 
circumstances. 

Yvonne,  more  dead  than  ahve,  followed  him 
through  the  deserted  salle  des  jeux  on  to  the 
quiet  bit  of  verandah,  and  sank  into  a  chair 
that  he  offered.  She  looked  at  him,  still  white 
to  the  lips. 

"You?" 

"Yes,"  he  said  laughingly,  "why  not?  It 
is  not  astonishing." 

"  But  I  thought  you  dead  ! "  gasped  Yvonne, 
trembling. 

"  A  la  bonne  heure !  And  I  seem  a  ghost. 
Oh,  I  am  solid.  Pinch  me.  But  how  did 
you  come  to  learn  ?  Ah  !  I  remember  it  was 
given  out  in  Paris.  A  canard.  It  was  in  the 
hospital  —  paralysis,  ma  chere.  See,  I  can  only 
just  move  my  arm  now.  Cetait  la  verte^  cette 
sacree  verte  —  " 

"  Absinthe  ?  "  asked  Yvonne,  almost  me- 
chanically. 

He  nodded,  went  through  the  motions  of 
preparing  the  drink,  and  laughed. 

"  I  had  a  touch  lately,"  he  went  on.  "  That 
was  the  second.  The  third  I  shall  he prrr^  — 
flambe !  They  tell  me  to  give  it  up.  Never 
in  life." 

200 


Histoire   de    Revenant 

"But  if  it  will  kill  you?" 

"  Bah.  What  do  I  care  ?  When  one  lives, 
one  amuses  oneself.  And  I  have  well  amused 
myself,  eh,  Yvonne  ?  For  the  rest,  je  m  'en 
fcher' 

He  went  on  talking  with  airy  cynicism. 
To  Yvonne  it  seemed  some  horrible  dream. 
The  husband  she  had  looked  upon  as  dead 
was  before  her,  gay,  mocking,  just  as  she  had 
known  him  of  old.  And  he  greeted  her  after 
all  these  years  with  the  same  lightness  as  he 
had  bidden  her  farewell. 

"£/  /(W,  Yvonne?  "  said  he  at  length.  "fV? 
roule  toujours  ?  You  look  as  if  you  were  brew- 
ing money.  Ravishing  costume.  Crepon  —  not 
twenty-five  centimes  a  yard !  A  hat  that 
looks  like  the  Rue  de  la  Paix !  Gants  de 
reine  et  petites  bottines  de  duchesse  !  You  must 
be  doing  golden  business.  But  speak,  ■petite^ 
since  I  assure  you  I  am  not  a  ghost ! " 

Yvonne  forced  a  faint  smile.  She  tried  to 
answer  him,  but  her  heart  was  thumping  vio- 
lently and  a  lump  rose  in  her  throat. 

"  I  am  doing  very  well,  Amedee,"  she  said. 

The  dreadfulness  of  her  position  came  over 
^er.  She  felt  sick  and  faint.  What  was 
going  to  happen  ?  For  some  moments  she 
20 1 


Derelicts 

did  not  hear  him  as  he  spoke.  At  last  percep- 
tion returned. 

"  And  you  are  pretty,"  Amedee  Bazouge 
was  saying.  "  Maisjolie  a  croquer — prettier  than 
you  ever  were.  And  I  —  I  am  going  down 
the  hill  at  the  gallop.  Tiens,  Yvonne.  Let 
us  celebrate  this  meeting.  Come  and  see  me 
safe  to  the  bottom.  It  won't  be  long.  I 
have  money.  I  am  always  l^on  enfant.  Let 
us  remarry.  From  to-day.  Ce  serait  rigolo  I 
And  I  will  love  you  —  mais  enormement !  " 

"  But  I  am  already  married  !  "  cried  Yvonne. 

"  Thinking  me  dead  ?  " 

"Yes." 

He  looked  at  her  for  a  few  seconds,  then 
slapped  his  thigh  and,  rising  from  his  chair, 
bent  himself  double  and  gave  vent  to  a  roar 
of  laughter.  The  tears  stood  in  Yvonne's 
eyes. 

"  Oh,  but  it 's  comic.     You  don't  find  it  so  ?  " 

He  leant  back  against  the  railings  and 
laughed  again  in  genuine  merriment. 

"  Why,  it 's  all  the  more  reason  to  come  back 
to  me.  ^a  y  met  du  sale.  Have  you  any 
children?" 

Yvonne  shook  her  head. 

"  Eh  bien  I  "  he  exclaimed,  triumphantly, 
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Histoire  de   Revenant 

stepping  towards  her  with  outstretched  hands. 
But  she  shrank  from  him,  outraged  and  be- 
wildered. 

"  Never,  never !  "  she  cried.  "  Go  away. 
Have  pity  on  me,  for  God's  sake ! " 

Amedee  Bazouge  shrugged  his  shoulders 
carelessly. 

"  It 's  a  comedy,  not  a  tragedy,  ma  chere.  If 
you  are  happy,  I  am  not  going  to  be  a  spoil- 
sport. It  is  not  my  way.  Be  tranquil  with 
your  good  fat  Englishman  —  I  bet  he 's  an 
Englishman  —  In  two  years  —  bah!  I  can 
amuse  myself  always  till  then  —  my  poor  little 
Yvonne.     No  wonder  I   frightened  you." 

The  affair  seemed  to  cause  him  intense 
amusement.  A  ray  of  light  appeared  to 
Yvonne. 

"  You  won't  interfere  with  me  at  all,  Amedee 
—  not  claim  anything  ?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  be  afraid.  Dh  ce  moment  je  vats 
me  reflanquer  au  sapin  !  I  shall  be  as  dead  as 
dead  can  be  for  you.     Suis  pas  mechant,  va  !  " 

"Thank  you,"  said  Yvonne.  "You  were 
always  kind-hearted,  Amedee  —  oh,  it  was  a 
horrible  mistake  —  it  can't  be  altered.  You 
see  that  I  am  helpless." 

"  Why,  my  child,"  said  he,  seating  himself 
203 


Derelicts 

again,  "  I  keep  on  telling  you  it  is  a  farce  — 
like  all  the  rest  of  life.  I  only  laugh.  And 
now  let  us  talk  a  little  before  I  pop  into  the 
coffin  again.  What  is  the  name  of  the  thrice 
happy  being?  " 

"  Oh,  don't  ask  me,  I  beg  you,"  said  Yvonne 
shivering.  "  It  is  all  so  painful.  Tell  me 
about  yourself — your  voice — Is  it  still  in 
good  condition  ? " 

"  Never  better.  I  am  singing  here  this 
afternoon." 

"In  the  Kursaal?" 

"  Why,  yes.  That 's  why  I  am  here.  Oh, 
^a  marche — pas  encore -paralys'ee,  celle-la.  Come 
and  hear  me.     Et  ton  petit  organe  a  tot  ?  " 

"  I  am  out  of  practice.  I  have  given  up 
the  profession." 

"  Ah,  it 's  a  pity.  You  had  such  an  exqui- 
site little  voice.  I  regretted  it  after  we  parted. 
Two  or  three  times  it  nearly  brought  me  back 
to  you  — foi  d' artiste  !  " 

"  I  think  I  must  go,"  said  Yvonne  after  a 
little.  "  I  am  leaving  Ostend  to-morrow  and 
I  shall  not  see  you  again.  You  don't  think 
I  am  treating  you  unkindly,  Amedee  ?  " 

He  laughed  in  his  bantering  way  and  lit  a 
cigarette. 

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Histoire  de   Revenant 

"On  the  contrary,  cher  ange.  It  is  very 
good  of  you  to  talk  to  a  poor  ghost.  And 
you  look  so  pathetic,  like  a  poor  little  saint 
with  its  harp  out  of  tune." 

She  rose,  anxious  to  leave  him  and  escape 
into  solitude,  where  she  could  think.  She 
still  trembled  with  agitation.  In  the  little 
cool  park,  on  the  other  side  of  the  square  be- 
low, she  could  be  by  herself.  She  dreaded 
meeting  the  Canon  yet  awhile. 

"  Do  give  up  that  vile  absinthe,"  she  said, 
as  a  parting  softness. 

"  It  is  the  only  consoler  that  remains  to  me 
—  sad  widower." 

"  Well,  good-bye,  Amedee." 

"  Ah  —  not  yet.  Since  you  are  the  wife  of 
somebody  else,  I  am  dying  to  make  love  to 
you." 

He  held  her  by  the  wrist,  laughing  at  her. 
But  at  that  moment  Yvonne  caught  sight  of 
the  Canon  and  Mrs.  Winstanley,  entering 
upon  the  terrace.  She  wrenched  her  arm 
away. 

"  There  is  my  husband." 

"  Nom  de  Dieu  I  "  cried  Bazouge,  stifling  a 
guffaw  before  the  austere  decorum  of  the 
English  churchman.  "  fa  ?  Oh,  my  poor 
205 


Derelicts 

Yvonne  !  "  She  shook  hands  rapidly  with 
him  and  turned  away.  He  bowed  gracefully, 
including  the  new-comers  in  his  salute.  The 
Canon  responded  severely.  Mrs.  Winstanley 
stared  at  him  through  her  tortoise-shell 
lorgnette. 

"  We  have  been  looking  all  over  the  place 
for  you,"  said  the  Canon,  as  they  passed 
through  the  window  into  the  salle  des  jeux^ 
leaving  Bazouge  in  the  corner  of  the  verandah. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  said  Yvonne  penitently. 

"  And  who  was  that  rakish-looking  little 
Frenchman  you  were  talking  to }  " 

"  An  old  friend  —  I  used  to  know  him," 
said  Yvonne,  struggling  with  her  agitation. 
"  A  friend  of  my  first  husband  —  I  had  to 
speak  to  him  —  we  went  there  to  be  quiet.  I 
could  n't  help  it,  Everard,  really  I  could  n't." 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  the  Canon,  kindly, 
"  I  was  not  scolding  you  —  though  he  did  look 
rather  undesirable." 

"  I  suppose  you  had  to  mix  with  all  kinds 
of  odd  Bohemian  people  in  your  professional 
days  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Winstanley. 

"  Of  course,"  faltered  Yvonne. 

They  went  through  the  great  hall.  At  the 
door  they  parted  with  Mrs.  Winstanley,  who 
206 


Histoire  de   Revenant 

was  waiting  for  the  Wilmingtons.  "  We  will 
call  for  you  on  our  way  to  the  concert  this 
afternoon,"  said  the  Canon. 

"  Thanks,"  said  Mrs.  Winstanley,  and  then, 
suddenly  looking  at  Yvonne  — 

"  Mercy,  my  dear  !     How  white  you  are  !  " 

"  There 's  nothing  the  matter  with  me,"  said 
Yvonne,  trying  to  smile. 

"  It 's  past  our  dejeuner  hour,"  said  the 
Canon,  briskly.     "  You  want  some  food." 

"  Perhaps  I  do,"  said  Yvonne. 

She  went  with  the  Canon  on  to  the  diguCy 
and  walked  along  the  shady  side,  by  the  hotels, 
past  the  gay  terraces  thronged  with  lunching 
guests.  But  all  the  glamour  had  gone  from 
the  place.  An  hour  had  changed  it.  And 
that  hour  seemed  a  black  abyss  separating  her 
from  happiness.  fr"^?' ' 

An  hour  ago  she  had  looked  upnT^  this  kind, 
grave  man  who  walked  by  her  side  as  her  hus- 
band. Now  what  was  he  to  her  ?  She  shrank 
from  the  thought,  terrified,  and  came  nearer  to 
him,  touching  the  flying  skirt  of  his  coat  as 
if  to  take  strength  from  him. 

They  entered  the  crowded  dining-room, 
where  the  maiire  d'hotel  had  reserved  them  a 
table.  She  struggled  bravely  through  part  of 
707 


Derelicts 

the  meal,  strove  to  keep  up  a  conversation. 
But  the  strain  was  too  great.  Another  five 
minutes,  she  felt,  would  make  her  hysterical. 
She  rose,  with  an  excuse  to  the  Canon,  and 
escaped  to  her  room. 

There  she  flung  herself  down  on  the  bed 
and  buried  her  face  in  the  cool  pillows.  It 
was  a  relief  to  be  alone  with  her  fright  and 
dismay.  She  strove  to  think,  but  her  head 
was  in  a  whirl.  The  incidents  of  the  late 
scene  came  luridly  before  her  mind,  and  she 
shivered  with  revulsion.  A  rough  hand  had 
been  laid  on  the  butterfly  and  brushed  the 
dust  from  its  wings. 

The  Canon  came  later  to  her  room,  kindly 
solicitous.  Was  she  ill  ?  Would  she  like  to 
see  a  medical  man  ?  Should  he  sit  with  her  ? 
She  clasped  his  hand  impulsively  and  kissed 
it. 

"  You  are  too  good  to  me.  I  am  not  worth 
it.  I  am  not  ill.  It  was  the  sun,  I  think. 
Let  me  lie  down  this  aftej-noon  by  myself  and 
I  shall  be  better." 

Surprised  and  touched  by  her  action,  he 
bent  down  and  kissed  her. 

"  My  poor  little  wife." 

He  stepped  to  the  window  and  pulled  the 
208 


Histoire  de   Revenant 

curtain  to  shield  her  eyes  from  the  glare,  and 
promising  to  order  some  tea  to  be  brought  up 
later,  he  went  out. 

The  kiss,  the  term,  and  the  little  act  of 
thoughtfulness  comforted  her,  gave  her  a  sense 
of  protection.  She  had  been  so  bruised  and 
frightened.  Now  she  could  think  a  little. 
Should  she  tell  Everard?  Then  she  broke 
down  again  and  began  to  cry  silently  in  a  great 
soothing  pity  for  herself 

"  It  would  only  make  him  unhappy,"  she 
moaned.     "  Why  should  I  tell  him  ?  " 

She  grew  calmer.  If  Amedee  would  only 
keep  his  promise  and  leave  her  free,  there  was 
really  nothing  to  fret  about.  She  reassured 
herself  with  his  words.  Through  all  his  failings 
toward  her  he  had  ever  been  '■'■  ban  enfant y 
There  was  no  danger. 

Suddenly  a  thought  came  that  made  her 
spring  from  her  bed  in  dismay.  The  concert. 
She  had  forgotten  that  Amedee  was  singing 
there.  Everard  was  going.  He  would  see  the 
name  on  the  programme,  "Amedee  Bazouge." 
There  could  not  be  two  tenors  of  that  name  in 
Europe.  Everard  must  be  kept  away  at  all 
costs. 

She  rushed  from  the  room  and  down  the 
14  209^ 


Derelicts 

stairs,  in  terrible  anxiety  lest  he  should  have 
already  left  the  hotel.  To  her  intense  relief, 
she  saw  him  sitting  in  one  of  the  cane  chairs  in 
the  vestibule  smoking  his  after-lunch  cigar. 
He  threw  it  away  as  he  caught  sight  of  her  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs,  breathless,  and  holding 
the  balusters,  and  went  up  to  meet  her. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  he  in  an  anxious 
tone.     "  What  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Everard  —  I  don't  want  any  more  to 
be  left  alone.  Don't  think  me  silly  and  cow- 
ardly.    I  am  afraid  of  all  kinds  of  things." 

"Of  course  I  '11  come  and  sit  with  you  a 
little,"  he  replied  kindly. 

They  entered  her  room  together.  Yvonne 
lay  down.  Her  head  was  splitting  with  nerv- 
ous headache.  The  Canon  tended  her  in  his 
grave  way  and  sat  down  by  the  window  with  a 
book.  Yvonne  felt  very  guilty,  but  yet  com- 
forted by  his  presence.  At  the  end  of  an  hour, 
he  looked  at  his  watch  and  rose  from  his 
seat. 

"  Are  you  easier  now  ?  '* 

"  You  are  not  going  to  the  Kursaal,  Everard? " 

"  I  am  afraid  Emmeline  is  expecting  me." 

She  signed  to  him  to  approach,  and  put  her 
arms  round  his  neck. 

2IO 


Histoire  de   Revenant 

"  Don't  go.  Send  her  an  excuse  —  and  take 
me  for  a  drive.  It  would  do  me  good,  and  I 
should  so  love  to  be  alone  with  you." 

It  was  the  very  first  time  in  her  life  that 
Yvonne  had  consciously  cajoled  a  man.  Her 
face  flushed  hot  with  misgivings.  It  was  with 
a  mixture  of  her  sex's  shame  and  triumph  that 
she  heard  him  say. 

"  Whatever  you  like,  dear.  It  is  still  your 
holiday." 


21 


CHAPTER   XIII 

Dis  Aliter  Visum 

But  the  best  l^d  schemes  of  Yvonnes  and 
'men  often  come  to  nothing.  While  she  was 
devising,  on  her  drive  along  the  coast,  a  plan 
for  spending  a  quiet  dangerless  evening  at  the 
hotel,  Mrs.  Winstanley  was  sitting  in  soli- 
tary dignity  at  the  concert,  nursing  her  wrath 
over  Professor  Drummond's  "  Natural  Law 
in  the  Spiritual  world,"  a  book  which  she  often 
perused  when  she  wished  to  accentuate  the 
rigorous  attitude  of  her  mind. 

Yvonne  had  reckoned  without  Mrs.  Win- 
stanley. Otherwise  she  would  have  offered 
her  a  seat  in  the  carriage.  As  it  was,  Mrs. 
Winstanley  felt  more  resentful  than  ever. 
Under  the  impression  that  the  Canon  was  to 
accompany  her  to  the  Kursaal,  she  had  gra- 
ciously dispensed  with  the  escort  of  the  Wil- 
mingtons,  who  had  gone  off  to  see  bicycle  races 
at  the  Velodrome.     She  was  left  in  the  lurch. 

212 


Dis  Aliter  Visum 

To  dislike  this  is  human.  To  wrap  oneself  up 
in  one's  sore  dignity  is  more  human  still,  and 
there  was  much  humanity  that  lurked,  unsus- 
pected by  herself,  in  Mrs.  Winstanley's  bosom. 
It  asserted  itself,  further,  in  certain  curiosities. 
She  had  seen  that  morning  what  had  escaped 
the  Canon's  notice  —  the  stranger's  grasp  on 
Yvonne's  arm  and  the  insolent  admiration  on 
his  face.  This  fact,  coupled  with  Yvonne's 
agitation,  had  put  her  upon  the  track  of  scandal. 
The  result  was,  that  at  the  concert  she  made 
interesting  discoveries,  and,  piecing  things  to- 
gether in  her  mind  afterwards,  bided  her  time 
to  make  use  of  them. 

It  would  be  for  the  Canon's  sake,  naturally. 
A  woman  of  Mrs.  Winstanley's  stamp  is  always 
the  most  disinterested  of  God's  creatures.  She 
never  performed  an  action  of  which  her  con- 
science did  not  approve.  But  she  was  such  a 
superior  woman  that  her  conscience  trembled 
a  little  before  her,  like  most  of  the  other  friends 
whom  she  patronised.  She  did  not  have  to 
wait  long.  The  Canon  called  upon  her  soon 
after  his  return  to  invite  herself  and  the  Wil- 
mingtons  to  dinner.  It  was  his  last  evening 
at  Ostend,  and  Yvonne  was  not  feeling  well 
enough  to  spend  it,  as  usual,  at  the  Kursaal. 
213 


Derelicts 

.]/**  Yvonne  is  still  poorly,  Everard?"  she 
asked,  with  her  air  of  confidential  responsibility. 

"  A  little.  She  has  been  gadding  about 
somewhat  too  much  lately,  and  it  has  knocked 
her  up." 

"  Has  it  not  occurred  to  you  that  her 
encounter  this  morning  may  have  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  replied  the  Canon,  sharply. 
"  It  would  be  ridiculous." 

"  I  have  reasons  for  not  thinking  so,  Everard. 
The  man  was  singing  at  the  Kursaal  this  after- 
noon. Here  is  his  name  on  the  programme." 
She  handed  him  the  slip  of  paper.  He  read 
the  name  among  the  artistes.  "  M.  Bazouge." 
He  returned  it  to  her.  /  .?-?IV. 

"Well?" 

"  Does  it  not  seem  odd  to  you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  A  relation  of  her  first  hus- 
band's, I  suppose.  In  fact  Yvonne  said  as 
much." 

"  I  could  not  help  being  struck  by  the 
name,  Everard.  It  is  so  peculiar.  I  remem- 
bered it  from  the  publication  of  the  banns." 

"  I  compliment  you  on  your  memory,  Em- 
meline,"  said  the  Canon. 

Mrs.  Winstanley  drew  hersd^  up.  offended. 
214 


Dis  Aliter  Visum 

She  walked  from  the  window  where  they  werd 
standing  to  a  table,  and  fetched  from  it  a 
newspaper.  {"^  noqi; 

"  Do  you  remember  the  Christian  name  of 
Yvonne's  first  husband  ?  " 

The  Canon  drew  himself  up  too,  and  frowned. 

"  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this,  Emme- 
line  ?     What  are  you  trying  to  insinuate  ?  " 

"  If  I  thought  you  were  going  to  adopt  this 
tone,  Everard,  I  should  have  kept  my  sus- 
picions to  myself." 

"  I  certainly  wish  that  you  had,"  said  he, 
growing  angry.  "  It  is  an  insult  to  Yvonne 
which  I  cannot  permit.  My  wife  is  above 
suspicion." 

"  Like  Caesar's,"  said  the  lady  with  a  curl  of 
the  lip.  "  Do  you  know  that  we  are  begin- 
ning to  quarrel,  Everard  ?  It  is  slightly  vul- 
gar. I  am  your  oldest  friend,  remember,  and 
I  am  trying  to  acquit  myself  of  a  painful  dutv 
to  you." 

"  Duty  is  one  of  the  chief  instruments  of 
the  devil,  if  you  will  excuse  my  saying  so,"  re- 
plied the  Canon. 

"  Oh,  very  well  then,  Everard,"  she  said  hotly. 
*'  You  can  go  on  being  a  fool  as  long  as  you 
like.  I  saw  your  wife  struggling  in  this  man's 
215 


Derelicts 

embrace,  more  or  less,  this  morning.  Two  or 
three  strange  coincidences  have  been  forced 
upon  my  notice.  For  your  sake  I  have  been 
excessively  anxious.  My  conscience  tells  me 
I  ought  to  take  you  into  my  confidence,  and  I 
can  do  no  more.  You  can  see  the  Christian 
name  of  this  Bazouge  in  the  Visitors'  List,  and 
adopt  what  course  of  action  you  think  fit.  I 
wash  my  hands  of  the  whole  matter.  And  I 
must  say  that  from  the  very  beginning,  two 
years  ago,  you  havfe  treated  me  all  through 
with  the  greatest  want  of  consideration." 

The  Canon  did  not  heed  the  peroration. 
He  stood  with  the  flimsy  sheet  clenched  in  his 
hand  and  regarded  her  sternly.  She  shrank  a 
little,  for  her  soul  seemed  to  be  naked. 

"  You  have  tried  to  ferret  this  out  through 
spite  against  Yvonne.  Whether  the  horrible 
thing  you  imply  is  true  or  not,  I  shall  find  it 
hard  to  forgive  you." 

Mrs.  Winstanley  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"In  either  case,  you  will  come  to  your 
senses,  I  hope.  Meanwhile,  considering  the 
present  relations,  it  might  be  pleasanter  not  to 
meet  at  dinner  to-night." 

"  I   am   sorry  to  have  to   agree  with  you, 
Emmeline,"  said  the  Canon. 
216 


Dis  Aliter  Visum 

She  made  him  a  formal  bow  and  was  leaving 
the  room ;  but  his  voice  stopped  her. 

"  Your  anxiety  cannot  be  very  great,  or  you 
would  wait  to  learn  whether  your  suspicions 
are  baseless  or  not." 

•She  paused,  in  a  dignified  attitude,  with  her 
hand  on  the  back  of  a  chair,  while  he  adjusted 
his  gold  pince-nez  and  ran  through  the  list. 

"  You  are  right  so  far,"  he  said  coldly. 
"The  names  are  identical." 

They  parted  at  the  door.  The  Canon 
walked  back  to  his  hotel  with  anger  in  his 
heart.  In  spite  of  cumulative  evidence,  the 
theory  that  his  cousin  had  insinuated  was 
prima  facie  preposterous.  It  was  important 
enough,  however,  to  need  some  investigation. 
But  the  feeling  uppermost  in  his  mind  was 
indignation  with  Mrs.  Winstanley.  He  was 
too  shrewd  a  man  not  to  have  perceived  long 
ago  her  jealousy  of  Yvonne ;  but  beyond  keep- 
ing a  watchful  eye  lest  his  wife  should  receive 
hurt,  he  had  not  condescended  to  take  it  into 
serious  consideration.  Now,  beneath  her  im- 
pressive manner  he  clearly  divined  the  desire 
to  inflict  on  Yvonne  a  deadly  injury.  To 
have  leaped  at  such  a  conclusion,  to  have 
sought  subsequent  proof  from  the  Visitors* 
217 


frn;'il)erelicts 

histy^r^^drndk^^fi^sign*  M^  could  never 
forgive  hqr,  r(  h^qaol?  f/.i'v  irrf  ^i 
j.fcStiU  0iejfa?kttQt  nad  -to  be  cleared  up  at  once. 
dnii^i^/iWjriyial  at  the  Ocean,  he  went  forthwith 
to  Yvonne's  room,  and  entered  on  receiving  an 
acknowledgment  of  his  knock.  She  was 
standing  in  the  light  of  the  window  by  the 
toilet  table,  doing  her  hair.  The  rest  of  the 
room  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  gathering 
evening. 

r    "  Well,"    she   said,   without    turning,    "  are 
they  coming  ? " 

The  grace  of  her  attitude,  the  intimacy  of 
the  scene,  the  pleasantness  of  her  greeting, 
made  his  task  hateful. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  an  asperity  directed 
towards  the  dis-invited  guest.  "  We  shall 
dine  alone  to-night." 

But  his  tone  made  Yvonne's  heart  give  a 
great  throb,  and  she  turned  to  him  quickly. 

"  Has  anything  happened  ?  " 

"  A  great  deal,"  said  the  Canon. 

Where  he  stood  in  the  dusk  of  the  doorway, 
the  shadow  accentuated  the  stern  lines  of  his 
face  and  deepened  the  sombreness  of  his  glance. 
His  brows  were  bent  in  perplexities  of  repug- 
nance. It  was  horrible  to  demand  of  her  such 
218 


DIs  Aliter  Visum 

explanations.  To  Yvonne's  scared  fancy,  his 
brows  seemed  bent  in  accusation.  That  was 
the  pity  of  it.  For  a  few  seconds  they  looked 
at  one  another,  the  Canon  severely,  Yvonne  in 
throbbing  suspense. 

"  What  ?  "  she  asked  at  length. 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  then  threw  his 
hat  and  the  crumpled  Visitors'  List  on  to  the 
table  and  plunged  into  the  heart  of  things  — 
but  not  before  Yvonne  had  glanced  at  the 
paper  with  a  sudden  pang  of  intuition. 

"  Emmeline  has  discovered,  Yvonne,  that 
the  man  —  " 

He  got  no  further.  Yvonne  rushed  to  him 
with  a  cry  of  pain,  clung  to  his  arm,  broke 
into  wild  words. 

"  Don't  say  any  more  —  don't  —  don't. 
Spare  me  —  for  pity's  sake.  I  did  not  want 
you  to  know.  I  tried  to  keep  it  from  you, 
Everard !     Don't  look  at  me  like  that?  " 

Her  voice  ended  in  a  note  of  fright.  For 
the  Canon's  face  had  grown  ashen  and  wore  an 
expression  of  incredulous  horror.  He  shook 
her  from  him. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  this  is  true  ?  That  you 
met  your  first  husband  this  morning  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  she,  with  quivering  lips  Ques* 
219 


Derelicts 

tion  and  answer  were  too  categorical  for  mis- 
understanding. For  a  moment  he  struggled 
against  the  overwhelming. 

"  Are  you  in  your  right  senses,  Yvonne  ? 
Do  you  understand  what  I  asked  you  ?  Your 
first  husband  is  still  alive  and  you  saw  him 
to-day  ? " 

"  Yes,"  said  Yvonne  again.  "  Did  n't  you 
know  when  you  came  in  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  know,"  he  repeated  almost  me- 
chanically. 

The  blow  crushed  him  for  a  while.  He 
stood  quite  rigid,  drawing  quick  breaths,  with 
his  eyes  fixed  upon  her.  And  she  remained 
still,  half-sitting  on  the  edge  of  the  bed,  numb 
with  a  vague  prescience  of  catastrophe,  and  a 
dim,  uncomprehended  intuition  of  the  earth- 
quake and  wreck  in  the  man's  soul.  The 
silence  grew  appalling.  She  broke  it  with  a 
faltering  whisper. 

"  Will  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

The  poor  little  commonplace  fell  in  the  midst 
of  devastating  emotions  —  pathetically  incon- 
gruous. 

"  Did  you  know  that  this  man  was  alive 
when  you  married  me  ? "  he  asked  in  a  hard 
voice. 

220 


Dis   Aliter  Visum 

"  No,"  cried  Yvonne.  "  How  could  I  have 
married  you  ?  I  thought  he  had  been  dead 
neariy  three  years." 

"  What  proofs  did  you  have  of  his  death  ?  " 

"  A  friend  sent  me  a  number  of  the  Figaro, 
with  the  announcement." 

"Was  that  all?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Yvonne. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  he  insisted, 
"that  you  married  a  second  time,  having  no 
further  proofs  of  your  first  husband's  death 
than  a  mere  newspaper  report  ?  " 

"  It  never  occurred  to  me  to  doubt  it,"  she 
replied,  opening  piteous,  innocent  eyes. 

The  childlike  irresponsibility  was  above  his 
comprehension.  Her  apparent  insensibility  to 
the  most  vital  concerns  of  life  was  another 
shock  to  him.     It  seemed  criminal. 

"  God  forgive  you,"  he  said,  "  for  the  wrong 
you  have  done  me." 

"  But  I  did  it  unknowingly,  Everard,"  cried 
poor  Yvonne.  "If  one  has  to  get  greater 
proofs,  why  did  you  not  ask  for  them,  your- 
self? " 

The  Canon  turned  away  and  paced  the  room 
slowly,  without  replying.  At  last  he  stood 
still  before  her. 

221 


/TUFgjDerelicts 


(C 


fApKHig,  ordinary  honourable  people   one 
lakes  such,'  things  for  granted,"  he  said. 

"  Forgive  me,"  she  said  again,  humbly. 

But  he  could  find  no  pity  for  her  in  his 
h^art.     She  had  wronged  him  past  redemption. 

"  How  much  truth  was  there  in  the  news- 
paper story  ?  "  he  asked  coldly. 

She  told  him  rapidly  what  Amedee  Bazouge 
had  said  concerning  his  attack  in  the  hospital 
and  his  subsequent  stroke. 

"So  the  man  is  wilfully  killing  himself  with 
absinthe  ?  "  he  said. 

"  It  appears  so,"  replied  Yvonne  with  a 
shudder.  f^,;   j.^„ 

"  Could  you  tell  me  what  passed  between 
you  otherwise  —  in  general  terms?"  he  asked, 
after  a  short  silence.  "  You  explained  your 
position  ?  Or  did  you  leave  him  in  ignorance, 
as  you  were  going  to  leave  me  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  —  of  course.  It  was  necessary. 
And  he  laughed  —  I  thought  to  spare  you, 
Everard." 

"  Spare  me,  Yvonne  ?  " 

"  Yes,"    she   said,  simply,    "  I    could   have 

borne  all  the  pain  and  fright  of  it  alone  —  why 

should  I  have  made  you  unhappy .''     And  ht 

said  he  would  never  interfere  with  me,  and  I 

ZZ2 


Dis  Aliter  Visum 

can  trust  his  word.  Why  should  I  have  told 
you,  Everard  ? " 

"  Do  you  actually  ask  me  such  a  question, 
honestly  ? " 

"  God  knows  I  do,"  she  replied  pitifully. 

"  And  you  would  have  gone  on  living  with 
me  —  I  not  being  your  husband  ? " 

"  But  you  are  my  husband,"  cried  Yvonne, 
"  nothing  could  ever  alter  that." 

"  But  good  God  !  it  does  alter  it,"  cried  the 
Canon  in  a  voice  of  anguish,  breaking  the  iron 
bonds  he  had  placed  on  his  passion.  "  Neither 
in  the  eyes  of  God  nor  of  man  are  you  my 
wife.  You  have  no  right  to  bear  my  name. 
After  this  hour  I  have  no  right  to  enter  this 
room.  Every  caress  I  gave  you  would  be 
sin.  Don't  you  understand  it,  child  ?  Don't 
you  understand  that  this  has  brought  ruin 
into  our  lives,  the  horror  of  loneliness  and 
separation  ? " 

"  Separation  ?  "  said  Yvonne. 

She  rose  slowly  from  her  seat  on  the  bed 
and  stared  at  him  aghast. 

The  twilight   in   the   room  deepened;   the 

shadow   of  a  wall  opposite   the   window   fell 

darker.     Their  faces  and  Yvonne's  bare  neck 

and  arms  gleamed  white  in  the  gloom.     They 

223 


Derelicts 

had  spoken  with  many  silences ;  for  how  long 
neither  knew. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  Canon  in  his  harder  tones, 
irecovering  himself.     "  It  means  all  that." 

"  I  am  to  go  —  not  to  live  with  you  any 
more  ? " 

"  Could  you  Imagine  our  past  relations  could 
continue  ? " 

"  I  don't  understand,  "she  began  feebly.  And 
then  the  darkness  fell  upon  her,  and  her 
limbs  relaxed.  She  swayed  sideways  and 
would  have  fallen,  but  he  caught  her  in  his 
arms  and  laid  her  on  the  couch. 

"  Thank  you,"  she  murmured  faintly. 

She  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and  remained, 
crouched  up,  quite  still,  in  a  stupor  of  misery. 
The  Canon  stood  over  her  helplessly,  unable  to 
find  a  word  of  comfort. 

The  sight  of  her  prostration  did  not  move 
him.  He  had  been  wounded  to  the  very 
depths  of  his  being.  His  pride,  his  honour, 
his  dignity  were  lacerated  in  their  vitals.  He 
burned  with  the  sense  of  unpardonable  wrong. 

"It  is  self-evident,"  he  said  at  last,  "  that 
we  must  part.  Our  remaining  together  would 
be  a  sin  against  God  and  an  outrage  upon 
Society/* 

224 


Dis  Aliter  Visum 

She  raised  herself  wearily,  with  one  hand  on 
the  couch,  and  shook  her  head  slowly. 

"  Such  things  are  beyond  me.  No  one  will 
ever  know." 

"  There  is  One  who  will  always  know, 
Yvonne." 

She  pondered  over  the  saying,  as  far  as  her 
tired,  bewildered  brain  allowed.  It  conveyed 
very  little  meaning  to  her.  Theology  had  not 
altered  her  child-like  conception  of  the  benevo- 
lence of  the  Creator.  After  a  long  time  she  was 
able  to  disentangle  an  idea  from  the  confusion. 

"  If  it  is  a  sin  —  don't  you  love  me  enough 
to  sin  a  little  for  my  sake  ?  " 

"  Not  that  sin,"  he  said. 

Yvonne  lifted  her  shoulders  helplessly. 

"  I  would  commit  any  sin  for  your  sake,'* 
she  said.     "  It  would  seem  so  easy." 

Curiously  assorted  as  they  were,  a  poetic 
idealism  on  the  one  side  and  grateful  venera- 
tion on  the  other  had  hitherto  bound  them 
together.  Now  they  were  sundered  leagues 
apart ;  mutual  understanding  was  hopeless. 
Each  was  bewildered  by  the  other's  moral 
attitude. 

The  logical  consequences  of  the  discovery, 
that  appeared  so  luridly  devious  to  the  Canon's 
15  225 


Derelicts 

intellect,  failed  entirely  to  appeal  to  Yvonne. 
She  referred  them  entirely  to  his  personal  in- 
clinations. On  the  other  hand,  the  Canon  had 
a  false  insight  into  her  soul  that  was  a  chilling 
disillusion. 

The  beauty  of  her  exquisite  purity  and  inno- 
cence had  always  captivated  in  him  the  finer 
man.  It  was  a  mirage.  It  was  gone.  Emp- 
tiness remained.  She  was  simply  a  graceful, 
non-moral  being  —  a  spiritual  anomaly. 

Yvonne  shivered,  and  rising,  walked  un-» 
steadily  to  the  wardrobe,  whence  she  took  a 
dressing-jacket.  Putting  it  on,  she  returned  to 
the  couch.  It  was  almost  dark.  The  Canon 
watched  her  dim,  slight  figure  as  it  passed  him, 
with  a  strange  feeling  of  remoteness.  A  hun- 
dred trivial  instances  of  her  want  of  moral 
sense  crowded  into  his  mind  to  support  his 
view  —  her  inability  to  see  the  wrong-doing  of 
Stephen,  her  indefinite  notions  in  religious 
matters,  her  mental  attitude  toward  the  girl 
that  had  gone  astray,  of  whom  she  had  been 
talking  only  the  night  before,  her  expressed 
intention  of  hiding  this  terrible  discovery  from 
him.  He  had  been  duped,  not  by  her,  but  by 
his  own  romantic  folly. 

Yet  what  would  his  life  be  without  her  —  or 
226 


Dis  Aliter  Visum 

rather  without  his  illusion  ?  An  icy  hand 
gripped  his  heart.  He  turned  to  the  glimmer- 
ing window  and  stared  at  the  blank  wall. 

Presently  a  moan  struck  upon  his  ear.  He 
wheeled  round  sharply,  and  distinguished  her 
lying  with  helpless  outspread  arms  on  the 
couch.  Mere  humanity  brought  him  to  her 
side. 

"  I  am  so  tired,"  she  moaned. 

"  You  must  go  to  bed,"  he  replied  in  a  gent- 
ler voice  than  hitherto.  "  We  had  better  part 
now.  To-morrow,  if  you  are  well  enough  to 
travel,  we  will  leave  for  England." 

"  Let  me  go  alone,"  she  murmured,  "  and 
you  go  on  to  Switzerland.  Why  should  your 
holiday  be  spoiled  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  life  that  is  spoiled,"  he  said  un- 
generously. "  The  holiday  matters  very  little. 
It  is  best  to  return  to  England  as  soon  as 
possible.  Between  now  and  to-morrow  morn- 
ing I  shall  have  time  to  reflect  upon  the 
situation." 

He  struck  a  match  and  lit  the  candles  and 
drew  down  the  blind.  The  light  revealed  her 
to  him  so  wan  and  exhausted  that  he  was 
moved  with  compunction. 

"  Don't  think  me  hard,  my  child,"  he  said, 
227 


Derelicts 

bending  over  her.  **  It  is  the  bitterest  day  of 
our  lives.  We  must  pray  to  God  for  strength 
to  bear  it.  I  shall  leave  you  now.  I  shall  see 
that  you  have  all  you  want.  Try  to  sleep. 
Good-night." 

"  Good-night,"  she  said  miserably. 

And  so,  without  touch  of  hand,  they  parted. 

The  hours  of  the  evening  wore  on,  and 
night  came.  At  last  she  cried  herself  to  sleep. 
It  had  been  a  day  of  tears. 

They  left  Ostend  quietly  the  following 
morning  by  the  Dover  boat.  During  the 
whole  journey  the  Canon  treated  Yvonne  with  . 
the  deferential  courtesy  he  could  always  assume 
to  women,  seeing  to  her  comforts,  antici- 
pating her  wants,  even  exchanging  now  and 
then  casual  remarks  on  passing  objects  of  in- 
terest. But  of  the  subject  next  his  heart  he 
said  not  a  word.  The  crossing  was  smooth. 
The  sea  air  revived  Yvonne's  strength. 

His  silence  half  comforted,  half  frightened 
her.  Had  he  relented  ?  She  glanced  often  at 
his  impassive  face,  in  cruel  anxiety  to  pierce  to 
the  thoughts  that  lay  behind.  Yet  a  little  hope 
came  to  her ;  for  fear  of  losing  it  she  dared 
not  speak.  To  her  simple  mind  it  seemed 
impossible  that  merely  conscientious  scruples 
228 


Dis  Aliter  Visum 

coiald  make  him  cast  her  off.  If  he  loved  her, 
his  love  would  triumph.  If  he  persisted  in  his 
resolve,  he  cared  for  her  no  longer.  In  this 
case  her  future  was  very  simple.  She  would 
go  back  to  London  and  sing. 

She  seemed  to  have  cried  her  feeling  away 
during  the  night  —  such  as  he  had  left  un- 
bruised  and  untorn.  For  the  quivering  flesh  is 
only  sensitive  up  to  a  certain  point  of  macera- 
tion. He  had  trodden  upon  her  pitilessly ; 
but  she  felt  no  resentment.  In  fact,  she  would 
have  been  quite  happy  if  he  had  put  his  arms 
round  her  and  said,  "  Let  us  forget,  Yvonne." 
By  the  end  of  the  journey  she  had  cajoled  her- 
self into  the  idea  that  he  would  do  so. 

A  suite  of  rooms  received  them  in  the  quiet 
West  End  hotel  where  the  Canon  always 
stayed.  They  dined  alone,  the  discreet  butler 
waiting  on  them,  for  the  Canon  was  an  hon- 
oured guest.  When  the  cloth  was  removed, 
the  Canon  said  in  his  even  voice :  — 

"  Are  you  sufficiently  recovered,  Yvonne,  to 
discuss  this  painful  subject  ?  " 

"  I  am  quite  ready,  Everard." 

"We  will  make  it  as  short  as  possible. 
What  I  said  last  night  must  remain,  whatever 
be  the  suffering.     I  have  loved  you  deeply  — ■ 

220 


Derelicts 

like  a  young  man  —  in  a  way  perhaps  ill  be^ 
fitting  my  years.  The  memories,  for  they  are 
innocent,  will  always  be  there,  Yvonne.  If  I 
did  not  seek  strength  from  Elsewhere,  it  might 
wreck  my  life  to  part  from  you." 

Her  hope  was  dashed  to  the  ground.  She 
interrupted  him  with  one  more  appeal.  "  Why 
need  we  part,  Everard  ? "  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  I  mean,  why  cannot  we  live  in  the 
same  house  —  before  the  world  —  ?  " 

"  It  is  impossible,"  he  replied.  "You  don't 
know  what  you  are  asking." 

His  voice  grew  husky.  He  paused  a  few 
seconds,  then,  recovering  himself,  continued  in 
the  same  hard  tones  :  — 

"  As  we  must  live  apart,  it  is  my  duty  to 
make  provision  for  you.  I  shall  alter  my  will, 
securing  to  you  what  would  have  come  to 
you  as  my  wife.  During  my  lifetime  I  shall 
make  you  an  allowance  in  fair  proportion 
to  my  means.  And  it  will  be,  of  course, 
unconditional." 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  her  gentle  nature 
rose  up  in  revolt  against  him. 

"  I  could  not  accept  it,  Everard,"  she  cried 
with  kindling  cheeks.  "  If  I  have  no  right 
to  bear  your  name  I  have  no  right  to  your 
230 


Dis  Aliter  Visum 

support.  Don't  ask  me  to  take  it,  for  I 
can't.'* 

"Yvonne, listen  to  me  —  " 

"  No,"  she  went  on  passionately,  "  I  am 
speaking  as  a  woman  now ;  the  time  has  come, 
and  you  were  right  in  your  prophecy  —  I 
would  sooner  die  than  live  away  from  you  and 
be  supported  by  you.  You  don't  understand 
—  it  is  as  if  I  had  done  something  shameful 
and  you  were  putting  me  away  from  you. 
Oh,  don't  speak  of  it,  —  don't  speak  of  it.  If 
I  am  not  your  wife  before  God,  I  have  no 
claims  on  you." 

"To  hear  you  speak  like  that  pains  me 
intensely,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  think  I  have 
lost  all  regard  for  you  ?  " 

"  If  you  loved  me,  you  would  not  wish  to 
part  from  me,"  said  Yvonne  with  her  terrible 
logic. 

They  were  on  different  planes  of  thought 
and  feeling.  The  Canon  argued,  insisted,  but 
to  no  purpose.     Yvonne  was  inconvincible. 

The  talk  continued,  drifted  away  for  a  time 
to  arrangements  for  the  immediate  future.  A 
reply  telegram  came  from  Geraldine  Vicary,  to 
the  effect  that  she  would  be  with  Yvonne  in  the 
morning.  It  was  settled  that  Yvonne  should 
231 


Derelicts 

stay  with  her  provisionally,  and  that  she,  in 
order  to  avoid  painful  meetings  and  communica- 
tions, should  be  Yvonne's  agent  in  the  necessary 
settlement  of  affairs.  Finally,  the  Canon  re- 
turned to  the  subject  of  the  allowance.  He 
would  settle  a  certain  sum  upon  her,  whether 
she  would  accept  it  or  not.  Yvonne  flashed 
again  into  rebellion.  The  idea  was  hateful  to 
her.  He  had  no  right  to  make  her  lose  her 
self-respect. 

**  But  it  is  my  solemn  duty  that  I  must 
perform.  Will  nothing  I  can  say  ever  make 
you  understand  ?  **  he  exclaimed  at  last,  in 
exasperation. 

Yvonne  rose  and  came  to  where  he  sat,  and 
laid  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder  with  an  ac- 
tion full  of  tenderness,  and  looked  down  upon 
him  with  her  wistful  dark  eyes,  all  the  more 
wistful  for  the  rings  beneath  them. 

"  Don't  be  angry  with  me  —  over  last  even- 
ing. It  is  good  and  generous  of  you  to  wish 
to  make  provision  for  me.  But  I  shall  be 
much  happier  to  feel  myself  no  burden  upon 
you.  And  it  will  be  so  easy  for  me  to  earn 
my  living  again.  I  shall  be  much  happier, 
really," 

Tke  little  word,  with  which   she  so  often 

2^2 


Dis  Aliter  Visum 

confirmed  her  statements,  the  familiar  touch  of 
her  hand,  the  sense  of  her  delicate,  fragile 
figure  so  near  him  caused  a  spasm  of  pain  to 
pass  through  his  heart;  disillusion  had  not 
touched  his  common,  human  want  of  her.  He 
bowed  his  head  in  his  hands. 

"  Some  day,  Yvonne,  it  may  be  possible  for 
me  to  ask  you  —  to  come  back.  If  I  give  in 
to  your  wishes  now,  will  you  give  in  to  mine 
then  ? " 

The  emotion  in  his  voice  was  too  strong  to 
escape  her.  It  stirred  all  the  yielding  sweet- 
ness and  tender  pity  of  Yvonne.  She  forgot 
the  reproaches,  the  pitilessness,  the  religious 
scruples  comprehended  only  as  unloving.  His 
broad  shoulders  shook  beneath  her  touch. 

"  I  will  come  whenever  you  want  me,**  she 
said. 

"If  I  have  been  ungenerous  in  word  or 
thought  to  you,  Yvonne,  forgive  me." 

Her  hand  strayed  shyly  to  a  lock  of  griz- 
zling hair  above  his  temples  and  smoothed  it 
back  gently. 

He  raised  his  head,  and  looked  at  her  for  a 
second  or  two  with  an  expression  of  anguish. 

Then   he  sprang   to    his    feet,    and   before 
Yvonne,  shrinking  back,  could  realise  his  in- 
233 


Derelicts 

tention,  his  arms  were  about  her  in  a  tight 
clasp,  and  his  kiss  was  on  her  face.  "  God 
help  us.  God  help  us  both,  my  chikL"  He 
released  her  and  went  hurriedly  from  the  room. 
And  so  they  parted. 


234 


Part    II 


CHAPTER  XIV 

"  IN    A    STRANGE    LAND  " 

They  buried  Noakes  on  the  other  side  of  the 
kopje  behind  the  house.  He  had  lasted  through 
the  winter  and  early  spring,  but  the  season  of 
the  rains  and  heat,  when  the  damp  oozed 
through  wooden  walls  and  mud  floor,  and 
hung  clammily  upon  sheets  and  pillows,  gave 
the  remnants  of  his  lungs  no  breathing  chance, 
and  Noakes  went  uncomplainingly  to  his 
place. 

Joyce  laid  "  the  dear  lady's "  letter  on  his 
breast  before  nailing  down  the  rough  wooden 
coffin.  It  seemed  as  if  most  of  his  own  heart 
too  were  enclosed  with  the  letter,  to  be  put 
away  under  the  ground  for  ever  and  ever. 
Wilson  the  farmer,  himself,  and  a  Kaffir  carried 
the  coffin  to  the  hole  that  had  been  dug 
beneath  a  blue  gum-tree.  There  Wilson  read 
the  burial  service  of  the  Church  of  England. 
23S 


Derelicts 

He  was  a  religious  man,  when  he  was  not 
drunk,  and  set  great  store  by  a  prayer-book 
that  he  had  saved  from  the  wreckage  of  church- 
going  times.  Over  a  fat,  phlegmatic,  brick- 
red  face  the  sun  had  spread  a  glaze,  as  if  to 
shield  the  colour  from  other  counteracting 
climatic  influences.  His  speech  was  thick  and 
uneducated.  At  first  Joyce  had  resented  his 
intention  as  a  mockery,  and  only  to  avoid 
unseemly  wrangling  did  he  stand  there  and 
listen,  while  the  Kaffir  squatted  by,  scratching 
his  limbs  in  meditative  wonder  at  the  incanta- 
tion. But  very  soon  the  solemn  beauty  of  the 
service  appealed  to  him.  "  Earth  to  earth, 
ashes  to  ashes,  dust  to  dust."  He  stooped 
and  threw  some  handflils  of  the  red  soil  rev- 
erently into  the  grave.  It  seemed  not  unfit- 
ting that  the  rude  voice  should  give  the  broken 
life  this  rude  burial. 

The  service  over,  Wilson  signed  to  the 
Kaffir  to  fill  in  the  grave,  and  flicking  the 
perspiration  from  his  forehead,  for  the  sun  beat 
down  fiercely,  turned  to  Joyce. 

**  Come  in  now  and  have  a  drink." 
But  Joyce  refused  and  remained  there  alone, 
with  his  head  sunk  on  his  breast,  watching  the 
Kaffir.     When  the  task  was  done,  he  set  at  the 
236 ^^_ . 


«<In   a  Strange   Land" 

grave-head  a  great  stone  he  had  previously 
brought  there,  and  slowly  went  away.  His 
steps  took  him  mechanically  back  over  the 
kopje.  But  when  he  arrived  at  the  prickly- 
pear  hedge  on  top,  the  sight  of  the  mean 
shanty  and  the  Kaffir  huts  and  the  straggling 
fields  high  with  corn  and  maize,  jarred  upon 
his  mood.  He  turned,  and  descending,  struck 
across  the  rank,  sodden  veldt,  that  stretched 
eastward  in  a  terrible  monotony  to  the  sky-line. 
There,  at  any  rate,  he  could  be  alone,  away 
from  the  sights  and  sounds  of  his  dreary  toil. 
A  broad  gully,  half  filled  with  a  red,  swollen 
stream,  stopped  his  progress.  Half  a  mile 
farther  up  was  a  bridge.  But  he  was  tired  and 
hot  and  sick  at  heart.  A  slab  in  the  shade  of 
an  overhanging  edge  of  the  ravine  met  his 
eye.  He  clambered  down  and  sat  there,  look- 
ing into  the  small  swirling  flood. 

A  centipede  crawled  close  by.  He  drew  his 
knife  from  his  belt,  cut  the  creature  in  two,  and 
flicked  the  pieces  into  the  water,  which  swept 
them  instantaneously  out  of  sight.  He  looked 
at  his  knife  that  had  so  speedily  given  death  to 
the  insect.  Was  he  much  better,  more  useful  ? 
One  gash,  a  leap  into  the  stream,  and  he  would 
be  carried  away  into  eternity.  Till  yesterday 
337 


Derelicts 

his  life  had  some  meaning  —  the  support  of 
the  poor  forlorn  man  just  buried.  Now,  what 
was  the  good  of  his  living  ?  There  was  no  joy 
for  himself,  no  service  to  one  of  God's  crea- 
tures. But  after  digging  his  knife  idly  into  the 
crumbling  slab,  he  returned  it  to  his  belt. 

Yet  what  he  had  dreaded  with  almost  mor- 
bid heart-sinking  these  latter  months  had  come 
about.  He  was  alone.  Noakes  had  gone  — 
passed  away  like  a  shadow,  as  the  burial  service 
hath  it.  The  phrase  brought  back  to  his  mind 
a  tag  from  old  days  of  scholarship  — "  (r/cta? 
ovap  avdpoiTTo<i  —  man  is  the  dream  of  a 
shadow."  He  mused  upon  the  saying.  Time 
was,  he  remembered,  when  he  had  wondered  at 
the  strange  Greek  melancholy  underlying  even 
Pindar's  gladness  in  outward  things,  thews  and 
sinews  and  supple  forms.  Now  he  understood. 
What  sane  man  who  had  watched  the  world 
could  escape  it  —  this  overwhelming  sense  of 
the  futility  of  things  ?  To  what  ends  had 
Noakes's  life  been  lived  ?  The  ceaseless  awful 
toil  of  grinding  out  despicable  literature  at 
sweated  wages ;  the  begetting  of  a  child  to  an 
inheritance  of  misery  in  the  world's  tragedy ;  the 
crowning  futility  of  his  senseless  exile  —  what 
purpose  had  it  all  served  ?  Save  for  the  pity 
238 


"  In   a  Strange   Land " 

of  it,  could  it  be  taken  seriously?  And  he 
himself  dangling  his  legs  over  this  gully  ? 
Verily,  the  dream  of  a  shadow. 

The  lines  in  which  the  passage  occurred 
came  into  his  head.  He  repeated  them  aloud. 
Such  reminiscences  of  former  culture  occasion- 
ally visited  him  and  smote  him  with  their  ironic 
incongruity.     He  broke  into  a  mirthless  laugh. 

The  westering  sun  had  already  touched  the 
top  of  the  far  distant  High  Veldt  when  he 
turned  his  steps  homeward. 

Wilson  was  squirting  tobacco  juice  over  a 
gate  and  giving  directions  as  to  the  repairing  of 
one  of  the  sluices,  that  drained  the  land  into  the 
gully,  whence  Joyce  had  come. 

"  This  damn  thing  will  all  go  to  glory  soon," 
he  said. 

"  We  ought  to  get  some  pipes,"  said  Joyce. 

"  And  lay  on  gas  and  hot-water,"  returned 
Wilson,  sarcastically.  "Where's  the  money 
to  come  from  ?  " 

Joyce  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  continued 
his  way  to  the  house.  He  did  not  much  care. 
Things  were  going  badly.  Well,  things  had 
gone  badly  with  him  since  he  stepped  aside 
from  the  paths  of  honest  living.  He  could 
expect  nothing  else. 

239 


Derelicts 

The  sight  of  the  rough  bed,  tenantless  now 
for  the  first  time  for  many  months,  was  inex- 
pressibly cheerless.  The  indentations  too  of 
the  coffin  still  remained  upon  it.  He  smoothed 
them  out  mechanically.  Then  reaching  for  a 
thick  pile  of  foolscap  that  was  on  the  shelf,  he 
sat  down  with  it  upon  the  bed.  It  was  the 
MS.  of  the  novel  which  Noakes  had  copied 
from  the  yellow  package-paper  —  all  written 
in  his  beautiful  round  hand.  He  had  been  a 
writing  master  in  his  youth  and  retained  a  pro- 
fessional pride  in  penmanship.  For  months 
this  copying  had  been  all  he  could  do. 

Joyce  read  here  and  there,  at  last  became 
interested.  The  work  was  good.  And  then 
for  the  first  time  he  seriously  contemplated 
mailing  it  to  a  publisher.  When  the  Kaffir 
came  in  later  to  help  him  prepare  supper,  he 
had  made  up  his  mind. 

It  was  a  gloomy  book,  dealing  with  the 
abject  side  of  colonial  pioneer  work  —  a 
tragedy  of  wasted  lives  and  hopes  foredoomed 
to  disappointment.  A  picture  of  wrecks  and 
derelicts;  men  of  broken  fortunes,  breaking 
hearts,  degraded  lives ;  poor  fools,  penniless, 
craftless,  who  had  come  hither  like  Noakes, 
allured  by  vague  visions  of  El  Dorado,  to 
240 


"In  a  Strange   Land" 

find  no  place  for  them  in  this  new  rude  land 
where  unskilled  labour  belongs  to  the  natives, 
who  defy  competition.  He  called  it  "  The 
Wasters."  Almost  unconsciously,  his  intel- 
lectual powers  had  returned  to  him  whilst 
writing  it.  The  English  was  pure,  the  style 
vigorous  and  scholarly.  And  the  feeling  — 
he  had  written  it  with  his  heart's  blood. 
Before  he  went  to  sleep  that  night,  he  ap- 
pended to  it  an  alternative  title,  "  The  Dream 
of  a  Shadow." 

In  the  course  of  time  the  manuscript  was 
despatched  and  Joyce  settled  down  to  many 
months'  forgetfiilness  of  it,  and  to  humdrum 
loneliness  and  labour.  Time  went  quickly, 
for  he  took  no  heed  of  its  flight,  having 
nothing  to  hope  for.  He  tried  to  begin 
another  book,  but  the  stimulus  of  Noakes's 
appreciation  was  gone  and  he  sank  again  into 
intellectual  apathy.  In  the  long  evenings  he 
taught  a  Kaffir  boy  to  read  and  write,  while 
Wilson  hoozed  away  the  profits  of  the  farm. 
At  the  best  of  times  there  was  little  sympathy 
between  the  two  men.  Often  mutual  anti- 
pathy manifested  itself  actively  under  a  thin 
disguise.  The  farmer  despised  Joyce  for  a 
broken-down  gentleman  unacquainted  with  any 
i6  241 


Derelicts 

handicraft  or  the  principles  of  farming,  and 
Joyce  considered  his  partner  a  dull  sot,  who 
was  letting  the  farm  go  to  rack  and  ruin. 
Still,  a  habit  of  life  is  a  strange  help  in  living. 
Often  Joyce  told  himself  that  he  must  sell  out 
and  try  his  luck  elsewhere.  But  there  was  no 
particular  reason  for  bringing  matters  to  a 
crisis  on  one  day  more  than  on  another.  So 
the  months  wore  on. 

The  work  of  the  harvest  knocked  him  up. 
He  got  ague  and  lay  in  bed  for  three  weeks. 
Wilson  cursed  the  day  he  ever  took  him  into 
the  place ;  and  had  it  not  been  for  the  hu- 
maneness of  their  next  neighbour,  who  farmed 
more  healthy  ground  some  forty  miles  away, 
towards  the  High  Veldt,  and  carried  Joyce  off 
thither  one  day  in  an  ox-waggon,  he  might 
have  speedily  followed  Noakes.  He  returned 
to  the  farm  cured  but  terribly  gaunt.  The 
lines  had  deepened  in  his  face,  over  which  the 
beard  grew  straggling,  accentuating  the  hollows 
of  his  cheeks.  His  hapds  had  whitened  and 
thinned  during  his  illness.  Wilson  sniffed 
contemptuously  at  then?  and  looked  at  his 
own  huge  glazed  and  freckled  paw. 

Winter  set  in.  There  was  plenty  to  do  — 
ricks  to  thatch,  buildings  to  repair,  fields 
242 


"In   a   Strange   Land" 

to  irrigate.  Joyce  did  not  spare  himself. 
Work,  if  joyless,  was  at  least  an  anodyne.  It 
brought  on  prostrating  fatigue,  which  in  its 
'oirn  brought  long  heavy  hours  of  sleep.  In 
that  way  it  was  as  good  as  adulterated  whisky. 

Some  men  thrive  physically  and  morally  in 
the  wilds.  The  incessant  conflict  with  the 
elemental  forces  of  nature  braces  nerves  and 
strengthens  the  will.  And  these  are  exclusive 
of  such  as  find  satisfaction  of  primitive  instincts 
only  in  uncivilised  lands  —  such  as  are  a  rever- 
sion to  the  savage  type,  and,  in  the  forest  or 
the  desert,  live  a  life  truer  to  their  natures 
than  amid  the  decencies  of  civilisation.  But 
the  men  who  thrive  are  physically  and  morally 
adapted  to  the  struggle  —  men  of  energy, 
ambition,  daring,  who  see  in  it  a  means  towards 
the  yet  ungained  or  forfeited  place  in  civilisa- 
tion. The  pioneer  work  of  new  colonies  is 
done  by  them,  and  they  generally  gain  their 
reward.  Joyce  had  found  all  the  successful 
men  in  South  Africa  belonging  to  this  type. 
He  had  looked  at  Noakes  and  himself  and 
groaned  inwardly.  They  were  doomed  to 
perish,  it  seemed,  by  natural  selection.  In 
the  case  of  Noakes  the  foreboding  had  been 
fulfilled.  Would  it  be  so  with  himself?  His 
343 


Derelicts 

unfitness  for  his  environment  weighed  heavier 
day  by  day  on  his  mind :  all  the  more  since 
the  loss  of  the  companionship  that  had  cheered 
him  in  dark  hours.  A  habit  of  brooding 
silence  fell  upon  him.  He  spoke  as  little  as 
in  those  awful  years  of  prison.  And  as  his 
life  grew  lonelier  and  more  self-centred,  softer 
memories  faded,  and  those  chiefly  remained 
that  had  branded  themse/ves  in  his  brain. 
The  gaol  came  back  to  his  dreams.  Once,  in 
the  shed  where  he  had  taken  up  his  abode 
since  the  beginning  of  spring,  he  awoke  in  a 
sweating  terror.  The  disposition  of  his  bed 
as  regards  the  window  and  the  height  of  the 
latter  from  the  ground  corresponded  with  the 
arrangements  of  his  cell.  The  nightmare  held 
him  paralysed.  And  this  in  some  form  or 
the  other  repeated  itself  at  intervals,  so  that 
he  was  forced  to  rearrange  his  room. 

He  had  shifted  his  quarters  owing  to  the 
arrival  of  a  fat  Boer  woman  who  claimed  con- 
nubial relations  with  Wilson.  The  suggestion 
nad  proceeded  from  himself  from  motives  of 
delicacy  and  good-natu.re.  At  first  he  had 
welcomed  her  in  spite  of  unprepossessing 
manners  and  appearance,  and  tried  to  win  her 
esteem  by  little  acts  of  civility.  But  the  lady 
244 


"In  a  Strange   Land" 

drank  ;  and  one  day  Wilson,  finding  her  alone 
in  Joyce's  hut,  whither  she  had  come  to  steal 
whisky,  grew  unreasonably  jealous  and  blacked 
both  her  eyes.  After  which  occurrence  Joyce 
and  she  let  each  other  severely  alone.  He 
relapsed  into  his  sombre  apathy. 

The  life  was  killing  him,  brutalizing  him. 
He  lost  even  interest  in  the  Kaffir  boy's  edu- 
cation, which  had  not  been  without  its  light  side 
of  amusement.  Hour  after  hour  he  would  sit, 
on  summer  nights,  on  the  doorstep  of  his  shed, 
pipe  in  mouth,  elbows  on  knees,  thinking  of 
nothing,  his  mind  a  dull  blank.  Now  and 
then  he  thought  of  Yvonne,  but  only  in  a 
vague,  far-off  way.  He  never  wrote  or  felt 
urged  to  write.  What  was  the  good .''  And 
he  had  received  no  letter  from  Yvonne  since 
the  one  that  had  accompanied  her  line  to 
Noakes.  Once,  several  months  afterwards, 
one  of  the  ox-waggons  from  the  town  had  been 
overturned  in  a  swollen  river,  and  many  stores 
including  the  mail  had  been  swept  away.  The 
driver  told  him  there  had  been  letters  for  him. 
Possibly  one  from  Yvonne.  At  the  time  he 
regretted  it,  but  his  morbid  indifferentism  had 
already  begun  to  darken  his  mind.  He  laid 
conjecture  dully  aside.  The  weeks  and 
24S 


Derelicts 

months  passed  and,  with  all  his  other  longings 
for  sweeter  things,  the  desire  for  her  letters 
died.  And  so  the  last  strand  wore  through  of 
the  last  thread  that  bound  him  to  England. 

As  for  the  novel,  he  had  long  since  ceased  to 
concern  himself  about  its  fate.  Probably  it 
had  been  lost  in  transit,  either  going  or  return- 
ing. The  yellow  sheets  on  which  he  had  writ- 
ten the  first  draft  lay  on  the  mud  floor  in  the 
corner  of  his  hut  and  rotted  and  grew  mil- 
dewed with  the  damp. 

At  last,  one  day,  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue, 
came  the  publishers'  letter,  offering  alternative 
terms  for  the  book,  the  usual  royalty  the  firm 
paid  to  unknown  authors,  or  eighty  pounds 
down  for  the  copyright,  to  be  paid  on  publica- 
tion. It  aroused  him,  with  a  shock,  from  his 
torpor.  That  night  he  could  not  sleep.  He 
got  up  and  wandered  about  the  veldt  through  the 
<i^y^y  gi'asses,  under  the  bright  African  starlight, 
his  veins  alive  with  a  new  excitement.  Perhaps 
he  had  found  a  vocation  —  one  to  bring  him 
money,  congenial  work,  the  right  at  last  to 
take  his  forfeited  place  in  a  civilised  land.  He 
returned  to  the  house  at  daybreak,  worn  out 
with  fatigue,  but  throbbing  with  wild  schemes 
for  the  future.  And  the  following  evening,  as 
246 


"In   a   Strange   Land" 

soon  as  the  toil  of  the  day  was  over,  he  lit  his 
small,  smoking  lamp,  and  sat  down  in  feverish 
haste  to  begin  a  new  story,  the  scheme  of  which 
he  had  half-heartedly  worked  out  soon  after 
Noakes's  death.  The  copyright  of  the  other 
he  sold  for  the  eighty  pounds. 

And  then  gradually  the  longing  for  England 
grew  more  insistent,  until  at  last  it  took  the 
form  of  a  settled  determination.  One  day  he 
saddled  a  rough  farm-pony  and  rode  to  the 
good  Samaritan  who  had  taken  him  in  during 
his  illness.  The  farmer,  a  hard-headed  Scotch- 
man, shook  his  head  dubiously  when  Joyce 
unfolded  his  plan. 

"  Stick  to  the  farm  and  buy  Wilson  out 
You  '11  mak'  more  money,  and  then  you  can 
retire  in  a  few  years." 

"  The  profits  are  nearly  swallowed  up  in 
improvements  and  transit,"  said  Joyce.  "  It 
is  a  bare  subsistence." 

"  That 's  because  you  don't  go  the  right  way 
to  work.  If  I  had  the  land,  I  'd  make  it  pay 
soon  enough." 

"  You  are  a  practical  farmer,  and  I  am  not, 
said  Joyce.     "  Even  if  I  desired  to  gain  expe- 
rience, it  is  precious  little  I   could  gain  with 
Wilson  —  and  I  long  for  home  again." 
247 


Derelicts 

"  That  *s  all  very  well  —  but  if  you  fail  with 
your  writing  ?  I  have  heard  it  is  a  precarious 
trade." 

"  I  'm  used  to  failure,"  replied  Joyce. 
"That's  what  I  came  into  the  world  for. 
You  can't  say  that  I  am  a  conspicuous  success 
as  a  colonist." 

"Sell  out  from  Wilson,  and  come  here," 
said  the  farmer,  "on  the  metayer  system.  I 
will  put  you  up  to  a  few  things." 

Joyce  looked  round  him ;  they  were  sitting 
on  the  verandah  of  the  nicely-built  house. 
Everything  had  the  trim  appearance  of  scien- 
tific English  farming  —  the  outbuildings  solid 
and  clean,  the  fields  high  with  grain,  the  dams 
in  perfect  repair,  the  yard  spick  and  span.  A 
flower  garden  lay  beneath  him.  A  well- 
trimmed  vine  covered  the  lattice-work  of  the 
verandah.  All  was  a  striking  contrast  to  his 
own  ramshackle,  neglected  surroundings.  A 
month  ago  he  would  have  leaped  at  the  offer. 
But  now  he  declined  it.  He  aistrusted  him- 
self, his  power  of  content.  If  he  once  put 
his  hand  to  the  plough,  he  would  not  be  able  to 
draw  back.  And  he  held  ploughs  in  cordial 
detestation.  He  rode  back,  having  thanked 
his   friend   and   obtained    his    consent   to    act 


"In  a  Strange   Land" 

as  arbiter,  if  need  were,  between  Wilson  and 
himself. 

A  day  or  two  later,  he  took  advantage  of  a 
sober  and  quasi-friendly  moment,  to  announce 
his  intention  to  Wilson,  who  listened  to  him 
stolidly. 

"  I  hope  my  sudden  withdrawal  wc«i*t  cause 
you  inconvenience,"  said  he,  politely.  "  If  it 
does  —  " 

"  My  good  friend,"  replied  Wilson,  "  I  am 
only  too  damn  glad  to  get  rid  of  you." 

"Then  if  you'll  give  me  a  lump  sum  down 
for  my  share,  and  lend  me  a  team,  I  '11  leave 
the  infernal  place  this  afternoon,"  said  Joyce, 
nettled. 

Wilson  went  into  the  house  and  came  out 
with  a  roll  of  greasy  notes. 

"  There,"  he  said,  "  will  that  satisfy  you  ? 
I  *ve  been  wanting  to  part  company  few  a  long 
time,  and  I  've  kept  'em  by  me." 

Joyce  counted  the  notes,  and  to  his  sur- 
prise found  the  sum  exceeded  that  which  he 
himself  calculated  to  be  his  due.  After  half 
an  hour's  joint  examination  of  their  roughly- 
kept  accounts,  he  found  that  Wilson  was 
right. 

**  You  are  an  honest  man,"  he  said  with  a 
249 


Derelicts 

smile.  "  It  is  a  pity  you  have  so  many  othef 
failings." 

"  I  can  keep  myself  out  of  quod,  at  any 
rate,"  replied  Wilson,  "which  is  more  than 
some  people  can  say." 

The  retort  was  like  a  blow  in  the  face. 
.Joyce  staggered  under  it. 

"  Another  time  don't  be  so  devilish  smart 
with  your  tongue,"  said  Wilson.  "  I  ain't  the 
one  to  cast  a  man's  misfortunes  in  his  teeth, 
but,  all  the  same,  it 's  best  for  a  man  like  you  to 
lie  low." 

"  What  the  devil  are  you  talking  of?  "  said 
Joyce,  fiercely. 

"  What 's  the  good  of  bluff?  You  've  given 
yourself  away  heaps  of  times." 

"  I  insist  upon  knowing  what  you  mean," 
said  Joyce. 

How  could  this  man  have  learned  his  his- 
tory ?  Noakes  could  not  have  betrayed  him. 
For  the  honour  of  his  dead  comrade  he  could  not 
let  the  matter  drop.  Wilson  tilted  back  his 
chair  and  squirted  a  stream  of  tobacco-juice 
over  the  floor,  which  aroused  the  indignation 
of  the  Boer  woman,  who  was  sitting  on  some 
sacks  near  the  door,  peeling  potatoes.  Her 
lord  was  a  beastly  Englander,  and  a  great  many 
250 


"In   a  Strange   Land" 

other  undesirable  things.  Wilson,  who  had 
not  yet  laced  his  heavy  boots,  took,  one  off  to 
throw  at  her  head,  but  Joyce  caught  his  arm. 

"  What  a  brute  you  are  ! "  he  said  angrily. 

Wilson  broke  into  a  laugh. 

"  You  'd  better  thank  Mr.  Joyce  for  saving 
your  beauty  from  being  damaged,"  he  said,  pull- 
ing on  the  boot  again. 

"Now,"  said  Joyce,  as  soon  as  domestic 
peace  was  restored,  "  tell  me  what  you  meant 
just  now." 

Wilson  rose,  went  to  the  door  and  ostenta- 
tiously spat  over  the  Boer  woman's  head ;  then 
he  turned  round  to  Joyce  :  — 

"  Look  here,"  he  said,  "  I  have  my  hands 
full  enough  of  quarrelling  as  it  is.  You  'd 
better  trek  off  with  that  waggon  and  a  couple 
of  niggers.  And  I  '11  give  you  a  piece  of  advice. 
When  next  you  shake  down  alongside  of  a 
man  to  sleep,  just  keep  from  blabbing  all  your 
private  affairs  to  him.  And  that's  why  I 
wanted  to  be  shut  of  you.  We  can  do  without 
your  kind  hereabouts.  No  wonder  you  were 
surprised  to  find  me  honest." 

"  I  suppose  I  must  beg  your  pardon,"  said 
Joyce  humiliated.  "  I  had  no  right  to  speak 
to  you  as  I  did." 

2^1 


Derelicts 

**  If  you  had  held  your  tongue,  I  should 
have  held  mine,  as  I  have  done  for  the  last 
year  and  a  half,"  replied  Wilson. 

A  few  hours  later  Joyce  stood  up  in  the  ox- 
waggon  and  looked  back  at  the  detested  place 
that  had  so  long  been  his  home.  It  was  just  a 
speck  in  the  midst  of  the  cheerless  plain  under 
the  irregular  mound,  the  kopje^  behind  which 
poor  Noakes  lay  buried.  He  drew  an  envelope 
from  his  pocket  and  looked  at  the  blade  of 
grass  he  had  picked  from  the  grave.  Ashamed 
of  his  sentimentality,  he  twirled  it  between  his 
fingers,  undecided  whether  to  throw  it  away  or 
not.  He  ended  by  replacing  it  in  his  pocket. 
After  all,  it  symbolised  a  pure,  tender  feeling, 
and  he  was  not  carrying  away  with  him  too 
many. 

He  smoked  in  silence  through  the  night, 
under  the  clear  stars.  He  was  sore  at  heart, 
deeply  humiliated.  The  buoyancy  of  new 
hopes  which  his  little  literary  success  had 
occasioned  during  the  last  few  weeks,  had  gone. 
The  sense  of  the  ineffaceable  stain  overpowered 
him.  It  was  a  fatality.  Go  where  he  would, 
he  could  not  hide  it  from  the  knowledge  of 
men.  In  his  own  land,  accusing  fingers  pointed 
to  it  at  street  corners.  In  the  uttermost 
242 


"In   a  Strange   Land" 

ends   of  the   earth  he   himself  proclaimed   it 
aloud. 

To  have  lived  for  months  and  months  under 
the  silent  contempt  of  this  drunken  woman- 
beating  brute,  to  have  been  watched  narrowly 
in  all  his  business  dealings  —  as  he  knew,  from 
Wilson's  nature,  must  have  been  the  case  —  to 
have  been  forced  to  stand  helpless,  degraded 
before  this  sot,  while  he  vaunted  his  one  virtue, 
honesty  —  it  was  gall  and  wormwood  and  all 
things  bitter. 

The  Southern  Cross  flashed  down  from  the 
myriad  stars  in  its  startling  splendour.  The 
moon  shone  bright  over  the  vast  silent  plain, 
limitless,  broken  only  by  the  undulating  mounds 
and  the  infinitely  stretching  clumps  of  karroo 
bushes.  The  camp-fire,  just  replenished  with 
damp  twigs  and  shrubs,  burned  sulkily  and  the 
smoke  ascended  in  spirals  into  the  clear  air.  The 
hooded  waggon  depended  helplessly  on  its  shafts. 
The  Kaffirs,  wrapped  in  blankets,  slept  beneath. 
The  oxen,  outspanned  some  distance  off, 
chewed  the  cud  in  sharp,  rhythmic  munches 
The  universe  was  still  —  awfully  still.  All  gave 
the  sense  of  the  littleness  of  man  and  the  im- 
mensity of  space. 

In  a  strange,  imperious  need  of  expansion, 
2S3 


Derelicts 

Joyce  threw  himself  down  on  the  wet  earth 
and  clutched  the  grasses  and  cried  aloud  :  — 

"  Oh,  God !  I  have  suffered  enough  for 
(ny  sin.  Take  this  stain  and  degradation  from 
my  soul." 

After  a  while  he  arose,  ashamed  of  his  weak- 
ness, the  futility  of  his  appeal.  Relighting  his 
pipe,  he  clambered  into  the  waggon,  and  sitting 
on  the  floor  against  the  back,  watched  the  por- 
tion of  starry  sky  framed  by  the  hood,  until 
the  first  streaks  of  dawn  announced  the  hour 
for  inspanning  the  oxen  again  and  continuing 
his  journey. 


254 


CHAPTER  XV 

KNIGHT— ERRANT 

For  all  the  change  about  him  and  within  him, 
the  hand  of  time  might  have  been  put  back 
four  years,  and  the  tender  might  have  been 
nearing  the  outward  bound  ship,  instead  of 
the  Southampton  landing-stage.  It  was  the 
same  raw  mizzling  rain  as  when  he  had  crossed 
the  harbour  four  years  before ;  the  same  wet, 
shivering  crowd  of  second-class  passengers, 
with  the  water  streaming  from  waterproofs, 
umbrellas  and  hand  luggage  on  to  the  sloppy 
deck.  In  his  heart  was  the  same  mingling  of 
anxiety  and  apathy,  the  same  ineradicable  sense 
of  pariahdom.  He  had  thought  that  the  sight 
of  England  once  more  would  have  brought 
him  a  throb  of  gladness.  It  only  intensified 
his  depressing  fears  for  the  future. 

The   circumstances    reproduced   themselves 

with  startling  actuality.      One  of  the  men  in 

charge  of  the   tender   had  a  great  ugly  seam 

across    his  face.      Joyce    remembered    having 

255 


Derelicts 

seen  him  before,  in  just  the  same  attitude,  with 
a  coil  of  rope  in  his  hand.  Had  he  not  awak- 
ened from  a  minute's  dream  that  had  covered 
an  illusory  four  years  of  his  life  ?  He  looked 
around,  almost  expecting  to  see  Noakes,  in  his 
ridiculous  curly  silk  hat  and  old  frieze  over- 
coat. 

The  tender  came  alongside  the  landing- 
stage,  and  he  stepped  ashore  with  the  dripping 
'-.rowd.  The  flurry  of  the  Custom  House  and 
tile  transport  of  his  meagre  baggage  to  the 
raiVay  station  broke  the  illusion.  He  was 
in  England  at  last,  and  it  seemed  a  strange 
country.  During  the  journey  to  London,  he 
had  the  companionship  of  some  of  his  fellow- 
travellers.  At  Waterloo  they  parted.  Then 
he  felt  terribly  lonely. 

"  Cab,  sir?  "  asked  a  porter. 

He  was  standing  over  his  luggage,  somewhat 
lost  amid  the  bustle  and  tumult  of  the  station. 
It  was  the  late  afternoon,  and  the  platforms 
were  hurrying  with  suburban  passengers.  The 
incessant  movement  through  the  blue  glare  of 
the  electric  light  dazed  his  unaccustomed  eyes 
He  declined  the  porter's  ofi^er.  Cabs  were 
a  luxury  he  could  ill  afford.  Besides,  one 
meagre  Gladstone  bag  contained  his  whole  pos- 
256 


Knight-Errant 

sessions,  and  he  could  easily  carry  it.  Leaving 
the  station,  he  took  an  omnibus  for  Victoria, 
with  the  idea  of  seeking  his  old  Pimlico  lodg- 
ings. If  he  could  not  be  taken  in  there,  it 
would  not  be  difficult  to  find  a  room  in  the 
neighbourhood.  Still  confused  by  the  sudden 
transition  to  the  midst  of  the  roar  of  London, 
he  peered  through  the  glass  sides  at  the  wet 
pavements  glistening  in  the  gaslight,  the  shop 
fronts,  the  eternal  hurrying  by  of  vague  forms, 
and  the  dash  past  of  vehicles.  From  West- 
minster Bridge  the  face  of  Big  Ben  greeted 
him.  He  stared  at  it  stupidly  as  long  as  he 
could  see  it.  The  lisht  on  the  Clock  Tower 
announced  that  the  House  was  sitting.  It 
was  all  curiously  familiar,  and  yet  he  felt  like 
an  alien.  There  was  not  a  soul  in  London  to 
welcome  his  home-coming.  His  heart  sank 
with  the  sense  of  loneliness.  He  was  as  infini- 
tesimal and  as  isolated  a  unit  in  this  seething, 
swarming  ant-hill  of  humanity  as  amid  the 
starry  solitudes  of  the  African  veldt. 

As  chance  willed  it,  he  found  the  house  in 
Pimlico  in  the  same  hands  as  before,  and  hia 
old  room  in  the  attics  vacant.  Nothing  had 
altered,  except  that  it  looked  smaller  and  four 
years  shabbier.  The  same  discoloured  blind 
17  257 


Derelicts 

hung  before  the  window,  the  same  fly-blown 
texts  adorned  the  walls.  The  same  acrid  smell 
of  dust  and  ashes  and  earth  and  the  unaired 
end  of  all  human  things  met  his  nostrils. 
When  he  went  to  sleep  that  night,  it  seemed 
incredible  that  four  years  should  have  passed 
since  he  had  last  lain  there. 

In  a  day  or  two  the  strangeness  wore  off. 
London  is  in  a  Londoner's  blood.  No  matter 
how  long  his  exile,  life  there  comes  to  him 
as  naturally  as  swimming  does  to  a  swimmer 
after  years  of  non-practice.  He  remembered 
how  he  had  yearned  for  its  sights  and  sounds 
and  stimulating  movement.  Now  they  were 
his  again,  and  he  took  a  measure  of  content. 
His  first  care  was  to  provide  himself  with 
some  clothes ;  his  next,  to  visit  the  publishers. 
A  cordial  reception  gratified  him.  The  book 
was  bound  to  have  some  success.  The  manu- 
script was  in  the  printer's  hands.  Publication 
was  announced  for  the  spring.  Joyce  went 
home  lighter-hearted  after  the  interview.  It 
was  delightful  to  be  treated  as  an  intellectual 
man  once  more.  His  prospects  too  were  not 
so  very  gloomy.  With  the  little  capital  he  had 
brought  back  from  South  Africa  and  the  ^80 
for  his  book,  he  saw  himself  saved  from  starva- 
258 


Knight-Errant 

Hon  for  two  years,  if  he  lived  very,  very  hum- 
bly on  a  little  over  a  pound  a  week.  Meanwhile 
he  could  earn  something  by  occasional  odds 
and  ends  of  writing,  and  also  complete  his 
second  novel.  He  arranged  his  scheme  of  life 
as  he  walked  along.  He  would  leave  his  lodg- 
ing punctually  at  a  certain  hour  after  breakfast, 
walk  to  the  British  Museum,  write  all  day  in 
the  Reading  Room,  dine,  walk  home,  and  write 
or  read  in  the  evenings  until  it  was  time  for 
bed. 

Thus,  as  ever,  his  sensitive  nature  reflected 
the  little  ray  of  hope.  But,  as  usual,  it  was 
soon  eclipsed  by  the  darkening  shadow  in  his 
soul,  although  he  set  to  work  with  dogged 
determination.  The  prospect  of  life-long  soli- 
tude appalled  him.  It  was  the  terrible  part  of 
his  never-ending  punishment.  To  a  nature 
like  his,  companionship  and  sympathy  are  es- 
tentials  of  development.  Without  them  it 
withers  like  a  parched  plant.  And  yet  he 
dreaded  making  new  acquaintances,  on  account 
of  the  shame  that  would  inevitably  follow  if  his 
identity  and  history  leaked  out.  He  accepted 
loneliness  as  his  portion.  There  were  only 
two  people  in  England  whom,  knowing  his 
story,  he  could  trust  to  shake  him  by  the  hand 
259 


Derelicts 

—  Yvonne  and  the  actor  McKay.  The  latter 
was  necessarily  lost  in  the  obscurities  of  his 
roving  profession.  Yvonne  was  married  to  his 
cousin,  moving  in  the  sphere  to  which  beyond 
all  others  he  was  rigorously  denied  access. 
One  day,  however,  when  the  memory  of  her 
sweet  kind  face  came  back  to  him,  and  he 
yearned  for  its  bright  sympathy,  he  wrote  to 
her  at  Fulminster. 

He  felt  somewhat  cheered  after  he  had  de- 
spatched the  letter.  And  as  comfortings  often 
come  in  pairs,  he  was  further  cheered  by  see- 
ing in  an  evening  paper  which  he  bought  from 
a  stand  near  the  pillar-box,  a  general  article  he 
had  sent  up  two  or  three  days  before.  It  was 
an  encouraging  beginning.  At  any  rate,  Lon- 
don streets  were  more  stimulating  to  his  intel- 
lectual powers  than  the  dull,  deadening  life  of 
the  African  farm.  He  made  many  good  reso- 
lutions during  these  first  days  in  London.  He 
would  win  back  his  lost  scholarship,  begin  to 
form  a  humble  library.  On  his  way  home 
he  bought  out  of  a  fourpenny  box  an  old 
copy  of  Plato's  "  Republic."  He  sat  up  halt 
the  night  reading  it. 

To  his  surprise  and  disappointment,  instead 
of  a  letter  coming  from  Yvonne,,  his  own  was 
260 


Knight-Errant 

returned  through  the  Dead  Letter  Office. 
"  Left  Fulminster  two  years  ago  —  present  ad- 
dress unknown."  He  was  puzzled.  At  the 
the  Museum  he  consulted  the  Clergy  List  for 
the  year.  According  to  it,  Canon  Chisely  was 
still  Rector  of  Fulminster.  What  had  hap- 
pened to  Yvonne? 

"  It  must  be  some  silly  mistake,"  he  said  to 
himself.  He  wrote  again ;  but  with  the  same 
result.  He  thought  of  writing  to  Everard,  but 
reflected  that  he  too  must  be  ignorant  of 
Yvonne's  address ;  also  that  in  any  case,  per- 
haps, he  would  disregard  his  letter.  There 
was  some  mystery.  Both  his  affection  for 
Yvonne  and  the  novelty  of  a  curiosity  outside 
himself  spurred  his  interest.  A  day  or  two 
afterwards,  he  noticed  on  a  hoarding  an  adver- 
tisement of  cheap  excursion  trains  to  the  great 
provincial  town  next  to  Fulminster.  The  jour- 
ney would  be  very  inexpensive.  Why  should 
he  not  go  down  and  pick  up  what  information 
he  could  ?  The  idea  of  the  litde  excitement 
pleased  him. 

He  started  the  next  morning  at  a  very  early 

hour,  and  arrived  at  Fulminster  about  noon. 

The  place  was  well  known  to  him.     He  had 

often   visited   his    cousin    in    days   gone    by. 

a6i 


Derelicts 

Many  bitter-sweet  associations  crowded  upon 
him  as  he  walked  up  from  the  station  through 
the  streets. 

He  went  on,  without  any  definite  idea  as  to 
his  course  of  action.  Almost  mechanically  he 
bent  his  steps  toward  the  old  abbey,  whose 
spire  rose  above  the  housetops,  at  the  end  of 
the  High  Street.  Soon  the  great  mass  towered 
above  him.  He  stood  for  a  while  looking  up- 
wards at  the  wealth  of  tracery,  and  crocket,  and 
pinnacle,  feeling  its  beauty,  and  then  wandered 
idly  round.  At  last  his  eye  fell  upon  a  notice 
on  the  board  by  the  vestry  door.  It  was 
signed  "  J.  Abdy,  Rector ;  "other  notices  bore 
the  same  signature.  This  was  a  new  surprise. 
Wondering  what  had  occurred,  he  left  the 
Abbey  Close  and  proceeded  round  the  familiar 
path  to  the  front  door  of  the  Rectory.  He 
would  take  the  bull  by  the  horns. 

"  Is  the  Rector  in  ? "  he  asked  the  servant 
who  opened  to  him. 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Could  I  see  him  for  a  moment  ?  ** 

"  What  name,  sir  ?  " 

"  Chisely,"  said  Joyce,  instinctively,  then  he 
coloured.     It  was    odd   that   he  should  have 
been  taken  off  his  guard. 
262 


Knight-Errant 

The  servant  showed  him  into  the  library. 
A  glance  proved  that  Everard  no  longer  in- 
habited it.  No  trace  of  the  dilettante  was 
visible  in  its  homely  comfort.  Presently  the 
door  opened,  and  the  Rector,  a  kindly  grey- 
bearded  man,  entered  the  room.  Joyce  made 
his  apology  for  intrusion. 

"  I  came  down  expecting  to  find  Canon 
Chisely.  I  am  a  distant  relation  of  his,  not 
long  come  from  abroad." 

"  I  fear  you  have  come  on  a  vain  errand," 
said  the  Rector  with  a  smile.  "  He  took  over 
his  diocese  in  New  Zealand  some  months  ago." 

"  His  diocese  ?  "  repeated  Joyce. 

"  Dear  me,  have  n't  you  heard  ^  Canon 
Chisely  accepted  the  bishopric  of  Taroofa  at 
the  beginning  of  the  year." 

"  How  very  extraordinary ! "  said  Joyce, 
nonplussed.  But  the  other  took  his  remark 
literally. 

"  Yes,  it  is  singular.  Most  people  think  he 
has  thrown  himself  away.  A  very  able  man, 
you  know  —  quite  young.  He  might  have 
had  an  English  bishopric  if  he  had  waited." 

"  And  Mrs.  Chisely  ? "  asked  Joyce, 
interrogatively. 

The  Rector  raised  a  deprecative  hand. 
263 


Derelicts 

"That's  where  the  whole  trouble  came  in, 
apparently.  It  weighed  on  his  mind  —  a  verv 
proud  man.  He  took  the  first  chance  that 
offered." 

"  Pardon  my  questioning  you,"  said  Joyce, 
"but  I  am  quite  in  the  dark  as  to  what  you 
are  referring  to.  The  last  letter,  two  years 
back,  that  I  received  from  Mrs.  Chisely  was 
dated  from  here.  She  was  happily  married 
and  all  that.  I  am  an  old  friend  of  hers. 
What  has  happened  ?  " 

"  I  can  only  repeat  the  gossip,  Mr.  Chisely. 
It  seems  that  just  about  then  some  misfortune 
arose  —  a  first  husband  of  Mrs.  Chisely's, 
supposed  dead,  turned  up,  and  so  there  was 
a  separation." 

"  And  where  is  Mrs.  Chisely  now  ?  " 

"  That 's  more  than  I  can  say.  A  lady  — 
a  great  friend  of  mine  —  also  I  believe  a  con- 
nexion of  your  own  —  " 

"  Mrs.  Winstanley  ?  " 

"  The  same.  I  see  you  know  her.  She 
may  be  able  to  inform  you.  I  believe  she  has 
said  authoritatively  that  the  late  Mrs.  Chisely 
went  back  to  her  fonmer  husband." 

"That  I  can't  believe,"  said  Joyce, 
indignantly. 

264 


Knight-Errant 

"  I  can  only  give  you  what  I  hear,"  said  tke 
Rector,  placidly.  "  I  know  Bishop  Chisely 
went  to  Paris,  where  they  were  supposed  to  be, 
before  starting  for  New  Zealand.  But  Mrs. 
Winstanley  will  tell  you." 

"  I  think  I  know  enough,"  said  Joyce,  hur- 
riedly, and  rising  from  his  chair.  "  I  am  greatly 
indebted  to  you  for  your  kindness,  Mr.  Abdy." 

"  Can  I  offer  you  some  lunch  ?  It  will  be 
on  the  table  in  a  moment." 

Joyce  declined,  pleaded  a  train.  He  would 
have  liked  to  sit  with  this  kind  gossipy  old 
man,  but  he  could  not  accept  such  hospitality 
under  false  pretences.  Perhaps  it  was  well 
that  he  acted  thus,  for  later  in  the  afternoon 
the  Rector  described  his  visitor  to  Mrs.  Win- 
stanley. She  listened  for  some  time,  and  at 
last  broke  out :  — 

"  Why,  my  dear  Mr.  Abdy,  it  could  have 
been  no  one  else  than  the  convict  cousin  ' 
He  must  have  come  to  get  money  out  of 
Everard." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Mr.  Abdy,  arresting  his 
hand  in  a  downward  stroke  of  his  beard. 
"  Who  would  have  thought  it  ?  He  seemed 
such  a  gentlemanly  fellow.  And  I  asked  him 
to  lunch ! " 

265 


Derelicts 

"  I  '11  write  and  put  the  dear  Bisnop  on  his 
guard,"  said  Mr.  Winstanley,  virtuously. 

Meanwhile,  Joyce  went  away  full  of  wonder 
and  pity.  It  was  an  amazing  story.  Poor 
Yvonne !  He  could  not  believe  that  she  had 
returned  to  the  scamp  of  a  first  husband. 
The  thought  was  repulsive.  At  any  rate 
communication  between  Everard  and  Yvonne 
seemed  to  have  been  cut  off.  He  was  not 
very  sorry  for  Everard. 

"  A  little  trouble  will  do  him  good,"  he 
muttered  to  himself  And  he  found  a  certain 
grim  amusement  in  the  contemplation  of  the 
chastened  Bishop,  his  cousin.  But  he  felt  a 
great  concern  for  poor  fragile  little  Yvonne 
cast  adrift  again  upon  the  world.  "  I  will  find 
out  what  has  become  of  her,  at  any  rate,"  he 
said,  digging  his  stick,  into  the  road. 

The  natural  course  was  to  write  to  Miss 
Geraldine  Vicary,  whose  address  he  fortunately 
remembered.  If  she  had  lost  count  of  Yvonne, 
he  would  set  to  work  to  find  her  some  other 
way.  H^  felt  as  eager  now  to  recover  Yvonne's 
friendship  as  he  had  been  apathetic  before. 
To  lose  no  time,  while  waiting  for  the  early 
return  excursion  train,  he  went  into  a  post- 
office  and  wrote  and  despatched  his  letter. 
266 


Knight-Errant 

The  following  morning  he  resumed  his 
newly  schemed  out  life  of  literary  work.  Three 
days  passed  and  no  reply  came  from  Miss 
Vicary.  On  the  fourth  morning  he  received  a 
black-edged  envelope  bearing  the  Swansea  post- 
mark.     He  opened  it  and  read  :  — 

Dear  Sir, — Your  letter  to  Miss  Geraldine 
Vicary  was,  according  to  instructions,  forwarded 
to  me.  I  regret  to  inform  you  that  my  poor  sister 
died  three  weeks  ago,  of  diphtheria.  She  caught  the 
disease  whilst  nursing  the  lady  concerning  whom,  I 
believe,  you  inquire.  Madame  Latour  had  been  living 
with  her  for  the  past  two  years.  Shortly  after  my 
poor  sister's  death,  Madame  Latour  was  removed  to 
St.  Mary's  Hospital,  where,  as  far  as  I  know,  she 
still  lies  very  ill. 

Trusting  this  sad  information  may  be  of  service  to 
you, 

I  am  yours  faithfully, 

Henrietta  Dasent. 

Joyce  hurried  through  his  dressing,  bolted 
his  breakfast,  and  rushed  out  into  the  street, 
with  one  idea  in  his  head.  Yvonne  alone  and 
uncared  for,  dying  in  a  London  hospital  —  it 
was  incredible.  The  apparent  heartlessness  of 
the  woman  who  wrote,  her  calm  disclaimer  of 
all  interest  in  her  dead  sister's  dying  friend, 
267 


Derelicts 

made  his  blood  boil.  A  London  hospital 
—  an  open  common  ward,  with  medical  stu- 
dents chattering  round  —  it  was  a  cruel  place 
for  the  sweet  delicate  woman  he  remembered 
as  Yvonne.     Where  were  all  her  friends  ? 

In  the  dismay,  excitement,  and  indignation 
of  the  moment,  he  forgot  his  poverty,  and 
jumped  into  the  first  hansom-cab  he  saw. 

"St.  Mary's  Hospital,  quick!" 

And  the  cabman,  thinking  it  a  matter  of  life 
and  death,  went  at  a  breakneck  pace. 


26S 


CHAPTER   XVI 

LA    CIGALE 

Seeing  Yvonne  at  that  time  of  the  morning 
was  out  of  the  question.  But  he  penetrated  to 
the  landing  outside  the  ward  and  had  a  few 
words  with  the  sister  in  charge.  She  was  a 
fresh,  pleasant-faced  woman,  who,  having  fallen 
in  love  with  Yvonne,  felt  kindly  disposed 
toward  her  friends. 

Madame  Latour  was  slowly  recovering.  One 
of  the  most  lingering  of  the  sequelae  of  diph- 
theria, diphtheritic  paralysis,  had  set  in.  It 
was  her  larynx  and  left  arm  that  were  affected. 
At  present  she  was  suffering  from  general 
weakness.  It  would  be  some  time  yet  before 
she  could  be  moved. 

"  Do  you  think  I  could  see  her  ?  '*  asked 
Joyce  — "  that  is  to  say,  if  she  would  care 
about  it." 

"  Certainly,"  replied  the  sister.     "  It  would 
probably  do  her  good.     To-day  is  a  visiting 
day  —  after  two  o'clock." 
269 


Derelicts 

"  I  wonder  whether  she  would  Hke  it,"  said 
Joyce,  questioningly. 

"  I  will  take  her  a  message,"  said  the  sister. 

He  scribbled  a  few  words  on  a  scrap  of 
paper  and  handed  it  to  her.  She  retired  and 
presently  returned,  smiling. 

"  She  will  be  delighted.  I  have  not  seen 
her  look  like  that  since  she  has  been  here. 
'  Tell  him  it  will  be  a  joy  to  see  him.'  Those 
were  her  words." 

Joyce  thanked  her  warmly,  raised  his  hat, 
and  departed.  It  was  a  fine  crisp  morning. 
The  message  seemed  to  bring  a  breath  of  some- 
thing sweet  into  the  air.  He  walked  along 
almost  buoyantly  in  spite  of  the  sad  plight  of 
Yvonne.  The  appalling  weight  of  loneliness 
was  lifted  from  his  shoulders.  The  sight  of 
him  would  be  a  joy  to  one  living  creature.  It 
was  a  new  conception,  and  it  winged  his  feet. 

On  the  stroke  of  two  the  great  doors  of  the 
ward  opened,  and  he  entered  with  a  group  of 
visitors,  chiefly  women  of  the  poorer  classes, 
some  carrying  babies.  It  was  bewildering  at 
first  —  the  long  double  row  of  beds,  each  with 
its  pale,  wistful  woman's  face.  Some  of  the 
patients  were  sitting  up,  with  shawls  or  wraps 
270 


La  Cigale 

around  them  ;  the  greater  number  lay  back  on 
their  pillows,  turning  eyes  of  languid  interest 
towards  the  visitors.  Two  beds  curtained 
round  broke  the  uniformity  of  the  two  white 
lines  of  bedsteads.  At  the  end  of  the  ward,  a 
great  open  fireplace,  with  glowing  blocks  of 
coal,  struck  a  note  of  cheerfulness  in  the  grey 
November  light,  that  streamed  through  the 
series  of  high  windows.  Joyce  felt  a  man's 
shyness  in  walking  among  these  strange  sick 
women,  and  looked  helplessly  dov/n  the  ward 
from  the  doorway,  to  try  to  discover  Yvonne. 
The  sister  came  to  his  help  from  a  neighbouring 
bedside. 

"  At  the  very  end.  The  last  bed  on  the 
left." 

Joyce  walked  down  the  druggetted  aisle,  and 
as  soon  as  he  saw  her  and  knew  hiniself  to  be 
recognised,  he  quickened  his  pace. 

There  she  was,  half  sitting  in  the  bed, 
propped  up  by  pillows,  her  wavy  dark  hair 
like  a  nimbus  around  her  pale  face.  In  hon- 
our of  the  visit  she  had  done  up  her  hair,  with 
infinite  difficulty,  poor  child,  and  put  on  a 
pretty  white  dressing-jacket  tied  with  knots  of 
crimson  ribbon.  His  heart  was  smitten  with 
pity.  She  was  so  changed,  so  wasted.  Her 
271 


Derelicts 

delicate  features  were  pinched,  her  childHke 
lips  blanched.  Only  the  old  Yvonne's  eyes 
remained  —  the  great,  pathetic,  winning  dark 
eyes.  They  gave  him  glad  and  grateful 
welcome. 

"  Yvonne." 

It  was  all  he  could  find  in  his  head  to  say 
as  he  pressed  her  little  thin  hand. 

"  How  good  of  you  to  come  to  see  me," 
she  said. 

Joyce  was  unprepared.  It  was  not  Yvonne's 
voice  —  once  as  sweet  in  speech  as  in  sing- 
ing ;  but  a  toneless,  distressed  sound  devoid  of 
quality,  like  that  of  a  cracked  silver  bell.  He 
could  not  conceal  the  shadow  of  dismay  on  his 
face.     She  was  quick  to  note  it. 

"  I  am  afraid  I  speak  like  a  wicked  old 
raven,"  she  said  with  a  smile ;  "  but  you 
mustn't  mind." 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  grieved  I  am  to  see 
you  like  this,"  he  said,  sitting  down  by  the 
bedside.  "You  must  have  been  very  ill. 
Poor  Yvonne." 

"  Yes.     Awfully  ill.     You  would  have  been 

quite  sorry  to   see  how  ill   I   was.     Do   you 

mind  moving  your  chair  further  down,  so  that 

I  can  look  at  you  ?     I  can't  turn  my  head,  you 

272 


La  Cigale 

know.     Is  n't  it  silly  not  to  be  able  to  turn 
one's  head  ?  " 

"You  must  make  haste  and  get  well,"  he 
said,  after  he  had  complied  with  her  request. 

"  I  'm  afraid  I  can't,"  she  said,  looking  at 
him  wistfully.  "  They  all  say  it's  going  to  be 
a  long,  long  business.  But  I  want  to  know 
how  you  came  here  —  to  England,  I'  mean," 
she  added  more  brightly,  after  a  pause.  "It 
was  such  a  startling  surprise  when  Sister 
brought  me  your  note  this  morning.  Why 
have  you  left  Africa  ?  I  've  been  dying  to 
know  all  day,'* 

Joyce  sketched  rapidly  the  events  that  had 
led  him  back  —  the  death  of  Noakes,  the  year 
of  wretched  apathy,  the  purchase  of  his  book 
by  the  publishers,  the  craving  for  civilisation. 

"  So  I  sold  out  and  came  home,"  he  con- 
cluded.    "  I  have  been  back  a  fortnight." 

"  You  must  have  been  very  sad  at  losing 
your  friend,"  said  Yvonne.  "  Death  is  an 
awful,  awful  thing.  Have  you  ever  thought 
of  it  ?  A  person  is  living  and  feeling,  like  you 
and  me,  to-day  —  and  to-morrow  —  gone  — 
out  of  the  world  —  for  ever  and  ever." 

Her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  and  she  looked 
at  him  out  of  great,  awe-stricken  eyes. 
18  273  ^ 


Derelicts 

"  I  have  lost  my  dear  friend  too  — just 
lately.     Did  you  know  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  replied  gently.  "  I  wrote  to  her 
for  your  address  and  her  sister  answered  the 
letter,  telling  me  of  her  death." 

"  Was  n't  it  terrible  ?  And  she  so  bright 
and  brave  and  strong.  I  never  loved  anybody 
as  I  loved  her.  It  was  only  after  she  was  bur- 
ied that  I  knew  —  and  then  I  wished  I  had 
died  instead —  I  who  am  no  good  to  any  one 
at  all.  And  I  am  alive.  Is  n't  it  an  awful 
mystery  ?  " 

The  man's  eyes  fell  for  a  moment  beneath 
the  intense,  child-like  earnestness  of  hers. 
Silence  fell  upon  them.  He  stretched  out  his 
arm  and  took  her  hand  that  rested  outside  the 
coverlet.  A  man  is  often  instinctively  driven 
to  express  his  sympathy  by  touch,  where  a 
woman   would  find  words. 

After  a  while  she  withdrew  her  hand  gently, 
as  if  to  break  the  current  of  thoughts. 

"  I  was  wondering  why  you  looked  differ- 
ent," she  said.     "You  have  grown  a  beard." 

"Yes,"  he  said,  with  a  sudden  laugh  —  the 
transition  was  so  abrupt.  "  I  was  too  slack  to 
shave  in  South  Africa.     Don't  you  like  it  ?  " 

"Oh,  not  at  all.     It  spoils  you." 
274 


La  Cigale 


"  I  will  cut  It  off  at  once." 

"  Not  just  to  please  me  ?  " 

"Just  to  please  you.  It  will  be  a  new 
sensation." 

"To  haveitofF?" 

"  No  —  to  please  you,  Yvonne." 

Her  eyes  smiled  gratefully  at  him. 

"  Tell  me  when  I  must  go,"  he  said,  after  a 
while.  "  I  must  n't  tire  you.  And  you  may 
have  other  visitors." 

"  Don't  go  yet.     No  one  else  will  come." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  only  person  who  has  been  to 
see  me  since  I  was  brought  here,"  she  replied 
sadly. 

Joyce  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  incredu- 
lously. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  you  have  been  quite 
alone  here,  among  strangers,  all  these  weeks  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said.  "  But  Sister  is  kind  to  me, 
and  they  allow  me  all  sorts  of  little  indulgences." 

"  But  you  should  be  among  loving  friends, 
Yvonne,"  said  Joyce. 

"  I  have  so  few.  And  I  have  told  no  one 
that  I  am  here.  I  couldn  't.  Besides,  whom 
could  I  tell  ?  " 

Joyce  could  not  understand.  It  was  so 
275 


Derelicts 

strange  for  Yvonne  to  be  friendless.     Delicacy 
forbade  him  to  question  further. 

"  I  have  had  a  lot  of  trouble,  you  know," 
she  said.  "It  has  been  nearly  all  trouble  for 
over  two  years.  I  wrote  and  told  you  what 
had  happened.  Then  I  went  to  live  with 
Geraldine  Vicary,  and  began  to  sing  again. 
But  I  was  always  being  laid  up  with  my  throat 
and  I  never  knew  whether  I  could  fulfil  an 
engagement  when  I  made  it  —  so  I  didn't 
get  on  as  I  used  to.  People  won't  employ  you 
if  they  fear  you  may  have  to  throw  them  over 
at  th«=>  last  moment,  will  they  ?  And  Geraldine 
used  to  keep  me  in  a  great  deal,  for  fear  I 
should  hurt  my  voice.  But,  you  see^,  I  had 
to  make  some  money.  So  I  went  out  and 
sang  just  before  this  illness,  when  I  ought  not, 
and  my  throat  became  inflamed  and  I  caught 
another  cold,  and  it  got  worse  and  worse  until 
diphtheria  came  on.  Then  poor  Dina  caught 
it  and  there  was  no  one  to  nurse  me.  You 
could  n't  expect  her  sister,  who  did  n't  know 
me,  to  do  much,  could  you  ?  And  then  Dina 
was  just  giving  up  her  flat,  and  of  course  I 
couldn't  keep  it  on  —  so  the  doctor  thought 
I  had  better  come  here.  J'y  suisyfy  reste. 
It  is  not  a  gay  little  story,  is  it  ? " 
276 


La  Cigale 


<c 


It  is  a  heart-rending  story  altogether," 
said  Joyce,  with  a  concerned  puckering  of  the 
forehead.  "  I  wish  I  could  do  something  to 
brighten  you,  Yvonne." 

"  You  have  done  so,"  she  said  with  a  smile, 
"  by  coming  to  see  me.  How  good  of  you 
to  remember  —  and,  you  know,  by  your  not 
writing,  I  thought  you  had  quite  forgotten." 

"  Forgive  me,  Yvonne  —  a  kind  of  dull 
brutishness  came  over  me  —  I  couldn't." 

"  And  I  could  n't  either,  after  the  one  I 
wrote  —  about  my  trouble  —  at  Fulminster. 
You  never  answered  it,  and  I  thought —  It 
was  n't  because  you  despised  me,  was  it  ?  " 

"  I  did  n't  get  the  letter,  Yvonne,"  he  said, 
unable  to  disregard  this  second  reference  as  he 
had  done  the  first.  "It  must  have  been  the  one  I 
heard  was  lost.  I  will  explain  afterwards.  I 
thought  you  were  happy  at   Fulminster  —  so 

why  should  I  inflict  my  eternal  grumblings  on 

?»> 

"Then  don't  you  know  what  has  hap- 
pened ? "  asked  Yvonne,  with  wider  eyes  and 
a  little  quiver  of  the  lip. 

"  I  learned  it  a  few  days  ago.  I  went  to 
Fulminster  to  find  you,  as  my  letters  were 
returned  to  me  through  the  Post  Office.  I 
277 


Derelicts 

was  determined  to  discover  you,  but  I  never 
dreamed  of  finding  you  here.  I  came  as  soon 
I  got  the  news  this  morning." 

"  I  have  one  friend  left,"  said  Yvonne. 

"  And  you  shall  always  have  him,  if  you  will,* 
said  Joyce.     "  You  are  the  only  one  he  has." 

"  Poor  fellow,"  said  Yvonne. 

Though  the  sweet  voice  was  broken  and 
hard,  there  was  the  same  tender  pity  in  the 
words  as  when  she  had  uttered  them  four  years 
back,  on  their  first  re-meeting. 

"  We  are  two  lonesome  bodies,  are  n't  we  ?  " 
she  added. 

"  We  '11  do  our  best  to  comfort  each  other," 
said  Joyce. 

The  visiting  hour  was  nearly  at  an  end,  and 
the  ward  was  growing  silent  again.  The  sister 
came  down  the  aisle  and  stood  by  Yvonne's 
bed  and  smoothed  her  pillows. 

"  You  have  had  quite  enough  talking  for  one 
day,"  she  said  pleasantly.  "It  has  given  you 
quite  a  colour  —  but  we  mustn't  overdo  it." 

Joyce  rose  to  take  his  leave. 

"  I  may  come  again,  the  next  time  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Would  you  ?  "  said  Yvonne,  with  an  eager 
look. 

278 


La   Cigale 

"  I  would  come  to-morrow  —  every  day,  if 
they  would  let  me,"  he  said  with  conviction. 

He  shook  hands  with  her  and  walked  away. 
At  the  end  of  the  ward  he  turned,  looked  back 
and  saw  the  mass  of  black  against  the  white 
pillow  and  the  specks  of  crimson  that  showed 
Yvonne.  He  hated  leaving  her  among  stran- 
gers and  the  rough  comforts  of  an  open  ward 
in  a  hospital.  An  odd  feeling  of  personal 
responsibility  was  mingled  with  his  resentment 
against  the  freaks  of  fortune  —  an  irrational 
sense  of  mean-spiritedness  in  letting  her  lie 
there. 

He  went  back  to  his  work,  cheered  and 
strengthened  within ;  but  his  outlook  on  life 
was  darkened  by  one  more  shadow  of  the  inex- 
orable cruelty  of  fate.  That  he  should  have 
suffered  —  well  and  good.  It  was  a  penalty  he 
was  paying.  But  Yvonne,  the  sweetest,  inno- 
centest  soul  alive  —  why  should  her  head  be 
brought  low  ^  And  thus  the  pages  that  he 
wrote  grew  darker  by  the  shadow. 

A  fortnight  passed,  during  which  he  saw  her 
as  often  as  the  visiting  hours  allowed.  He 
brought  her  whatever  little  trifles  he  could 
afford,  and  she  accepted  them  with  the  eager 
gratification  of  a  child.  There  was  a  second- 
279 


Derelicts 

hand  bookshop  he  had  come  across  during  his 
late  wanderings,  in  Upper  Street,  Islington, 
which  had  a  speciality  in  cheap,  tattered  French 
novels.  Thither  he  tramped  one  day  in  order 
to  gratify  a  desire  she  had  expressed,  and  spent 
an  hour  turning  over  the  stock.  It  seemed 
hard  not  to  be  able  to  go  into  a  West  End 
shop  and  order  the  newest  Paris  fiction ;  but 
a  poor  devil  must  do  as  best  he  can  and  be 
cheerful.  Yvonne's  delight  repaid  him  for 
wounded  pride.  She  dipped  into  them  all, 
while  he  was  there,  turning  to  the  last  page 
to  see  how  they  ended.  And  then  the  rakish 
air  their  soiled  yellow  covers  gave  to  the  bed, 
as  they  sprawled  upon  it,  amused  them  both. 

They  talked  of  many  things.  Yvonne  in- 
terested herself  in  the  patients  and  gossiped 
about  their  progress  and  their  eccentricities. 
Often  her  artless  candour  and  innate  love  ot 
laughter  gave  him  details  unfit  perhaps  for  ears 
masculine.  Then  she  would  catch  herself  up, 
while  a  faint  tinge  of  colour  came  into  her 
cheek,  and  with  still  smiling  eyes,  say : 

"  I  always  forget  that  you  *re  a  man.  You 
■)ught  to  remind  me." 

Joyce,  for  his  part,  strove  to  amuse  her  with 
whatever  gleams  of  brightness  he  could  find  in 
280 


La  Cigale 

his  colonial  adventures.  Noakes  grew  to  be 
the  hero  of  an  Arthurian  cycle.  As  for  the 
fat  Boer  woman,  he  was  surprised  at  the 
amount  of  grim  humour  he  extracted  from 
her  doings. 

"  I  hope  you  are  going  to  put  it  in  a  book," 
Yvonne  would  say,  with  her  little  air  of  wis- 
dom.    "You  mustn't  waste  it  all  upon  me." 

And  Joyce,  by  thus  disintegrating  incidents 
from  his  confused  mass  of  impressions,  found 
the  talks  of  material  benefit  as  well  as  a  delight. 
For  a  delight  they  were ;  the  more  so,  because 
Yvonne's  gladness  at  his  visits  was  so  obviously 
genuine  and  spontaneous.  She  told  him  that 
she  counted  the  hours  between  them.  And 
Yvonne  scarcely  exaggerated.  His  visits  were 
bright  spots  in  a  sorrowful,  fear-haunted  time. 
When  he  came,  she  summoned  up  all  her 
strength  and  courage  so  as  to  make  the  hour 
pass  pleasantly.  Men  do  not  like  crying,  com- 
plaining women,  thought  poor  Yvonne.  Un- 
less she  was  bright  for  him,  he  might  grow 
tired  of  coming,  and  then  she  would  be  lone- 
lier than  before.  So  Yvonne  told  him  little  of 
the  anxieties  that  lay  like  a  dead  weight  upon 
her  poor  little  soul  and  kept  her  awake  at 
nights,  amid  the  moans  of  the  sleeping  women, 
281 


Derelicts 

that  sounded  faint  and  ghostly  in  the  dim 
ward. 

Her  patient  acceptance  of  her  lot  won  Joyce'* 
admiration.  But  of  her  real  position  he  had 
no  idea.  The  gentleman  in  him  that  had  sur- 
vived his  shame  and  degradation  forbade  him 
to  pry  into  her  private  affairs.  Besides,  he 
took  it  for  granted  that  when  she  recovered, 
she  would  live  by  herself  again,  in  the  old  way, 
and  that  her  drawing-room  would  be  a  haven 
of  rest  to  him  for  indefinite  years.  The  ques- 
tion of  nursing  alone,  he  thought,  and  her  in- 
comprehensible friendlessness,  had  brought  her 
to  the  hospital.     He  longed  for  her  to  leave  it. 

One  day,  however,  he  found  her  lying  down 
in  bed,  her  hair  in  dark  loose  masses  over  the 
pillow,  her  face  turned  away  towards  the  sister 
who  was  sitting  by  her  side.  The  latter  rose 
on  seeing  him,  and  hurried  forward  to  meet 
him  in  the  aisle. 

"  Be  as  kind  as  you  can  to  her,"  she  said ; 
"she  is  in  great  trouble  to-day,  poor  little 
thing." 

"  What  is  the  matter  ? "  asked  Joyce,  anx- 
iously. 

"  Let  her  speak  for  herself  I  was  to  send 
you  away  when  you  came.  She  was  not  fit  to 
282 


La   Cigale 

see  you,  she  said.      But  I  am  sure  it  will  com- 
fort her  to  talk  to  a  friend." 

The    sister    moved    away,    and    Joyce    ap 
proached  Yvonne's  bedside  with   quick  steps. 
Something  serious  must  have  happened. 

Yvonne  raised  a  wan,  desolate  face  and  eyes 
heavy  with  crying,  and  put  out  her  hand 
timidly  from  beneath  the  bedclothes.  He 
retained  it,  as  he  sat  down  upon  the  chair 
just  vacated  by  the  sister.  The  few  little 
cakes  he  had  brought  her  he  placed  on  the 
stand  near  by.  She  looked  too  woe-begone 
for  cakes. 

"  I  have  come  in  spite  of  your  message," 
he  said.  "  Why  did  you  want  to  send  me 
away  ?  " 

"  I  am  too  miserable,"  murmured  Yvonne, 
in  her  broken  voice. 

"What  has  happened  to  make  you  miser- 
able ?  "  he  asked  very  softly.  "  Tell  me,  if  it 
is  anything  I  can  hear." 

"  It 's  my  voice  that  has  gone,"  cried  Yvonne 
in  a  sob.  "They  told  me  this  morning  —  the 
doctor  brought  a  throat  specialist — I  shall 
never  be  able  to  sing  again  —  never." 

Before  this  sudden  calamity  the  man  was 
powerless  for  comfort. 

283 


Derelicts 

"  My  poor  little  woman  !  "  he  said. 

"  It  is  worse  than  losing  a  limb,"  moaned 
Yvonne.  "  I  have  been  dreading  it  —  hoping 
against  hope  all  along.  I  wished  I  had  died 
instead  of  Dina.     I  wish  I  could  die  now." 

The  tears  came  again.  She  drew  away  her 
hand  and  dabbed  her  eyes  with  a  miserable 
little  wet  rag  of  a  handkerchief 

"  Don't,"  said  Joyce,  helplessly.  "  If  you 
give  way  you  will  make  yourself  worse.  They 
may  be  mistaken.  Perhaps  it  will  come  again 
after  a  year  or  two." 

He  strove  to  cheer  her,  brought  forward  all 
the  arguments  he  could  think  of,  all  the  tender 
phrases  his  unaccustomed  mind  could  suggest. 
At  last  the  tears  ceased  for  a  time. 

"  But  it  is  my  means  of  livelihood  gone," 
she  said.    "  When  I  leave  here  I  shall  starve." 

"  Not  while  I  live,"  said  Joyce,  impulsively. 
Then  he  reflected.  Surely  she  could  not  be 
entirely  without  means.  He  coloured  slightly 
at  his  remark,  as  at  an  impertinence. 

"  I  shall  never  get  any  money  any  more 
as  long  as  I  live,"  said  Yvonne.  "  I  can  only 
go  from  this  hospital  into  the  workhouse.  And 
I  won't  go  there.     I  will  pray  to  die  rather." 

"  But,"  began  Joyce,  in  an  embarrassed  way, 
284 


La  Cigale 

"  I  don't  understand.  Forgive  me  for  touch- 
ing upon  it  —  but  has  not  Everard  —  ?  " 

"  No,  oh,  no  !  I  refused.  I  could  n't  take 
his  money,  if  I  was  not  his  wife." 

"  That 's  absurd,"  said  Joyce.  But  his 
opinion  did  not  alter  the  facts.  He  remained 
for  a  moment  in  thought.  "  Don't  lose 
heart,"  he  said  at  length.  "  Things  are  never 
as  bad  as  they  seem.  I've  had  awfully  bad 
times  and  yet  I  have  pulled  through,  some- 
how. You  can  live  quietly  for  a  little  on 
what  you  have,  and  then  — " 

"  But  I  have  n't  a  penny,  Stephen,"  she  cried 
piteously.  "  Not  a  penny  in  the  world.  I 
earned  scarcely  anything  the  last  year.  If  it 
hadn't  been  for  Dina,  I  don't  know  what  I 
should  have  done.  I  don't  own  anything  but 
a  few  sticks  of  furniture  and  some  clothes  —  " 

"  Where  are  they  ?  " 

"  The  porter's  wife  at  the  mansions  is  keep- 
ing them  for  me,  I  believe.  They  may  be 
sold.     I  was  too  ill  to  trouble." 

"  I  'II  see  about  them  for  you,"  said  Joyce. 

His  heart  was    moved  with    great  pity   for 

the  sweet,  helpless  little  soul.     It  seemed  hard 

to  realise  that,  when  they  had  met  four  years 

ago,  he  had  looked  upon  her  as  a  Lady  Boun- 

285 


Derelicts 

tiful,  who  had  only  to  stretch  out  her  kind 
arm  to  save  him  from  starvation.  Oh,  the 
whirligig  of  time  !  And  yet  the  memory  of 
her  help  was  very  precious  to  him. 

"  You  must  let  me  act  for  you,  Yvonne,  will 
you  ?  " 

"  You  have  your  own  troubles,  poor  fellow," 
said  Yvonne. 

"  Yours  will  drive  mine  away,  so  they  will 
be  a  blessing  in  disguise.  I  wonder  if  you 
could  trust  me  ?  " 

"I  have  always  done  so  —  and  I  do. 
Are  n't  you  the  only  friend  I  have  ?  " 

"  That  is  what  beats  me  entirely,"  he  said. 
"  What  are  all  your  friends  doing  ?  " 

"  They  have  all  disappeared  gradually,"  said 
Yvonne.  "  My  poor  marriage  cut  me  adrift 
from  my  old  circle.  And  at  Fulminster — I 
did  n't  make  many  real  friends." 

"There  was  a  girl  you  wrote  to  me  about 
once  or  twice." 

"  Sophia  Wilmington  ?  She  *s  married  and 
gone  out  to  India.  I  should  have  written  to 
her  if  she  had  been  in  England,  for  she  was 
fond  of  me." 

"  I    should   have   thought   that   the    whole 
world  was  fond  of  you,  Yvonne." 
286 


La   Cigale 

"  I  don't  know,"  she  said  wistfully.  "  It 
seems  that  I  have  always  been  a  kind  of  wait. 
I  never  had  any  solid  kinds  of  friends,  families 
and  so  forth  —  except  your  dear  mother.  I 
once  knew  a  lot  of  professionals  —  but  I  saw 
men  mostly  —  I  could  never  tell  why  —  and 
they  don't  bother  about  you  much  when 
they  've  lost  sight  of  you,  do  they  ?  I  thought 
Vandeleur  might  have  wondered  what  had  be- 
come of  me." 

"  Dear,  dear ! "  said  Joyce,  reflectively.  "  I 
remember  Vandeleur  from  the  long  ago." 

"  Yes,  he  's  an  old  friend.  But,  you  see,  it 
was  through  Dina.  He  behaved  badly  to  her 
and  married  Elsie  Carnegie  —  and  so  they 
were  cuts.  I  only  saw  him  once  all  last  year. 
I  heard  she  was  awfully  jealous.  Is  n't  it  silly 
of  a  woman  ?  I  think,  if  he  knew  I  was  here 
he  *d  come.     But  what  would  be  the  use  ?  " 

"  Not  much,  except  to  say  a  friendly  word 
to  you.  But  still  —  while  you  were  living 
with  Miss  Vicary,  you  must  have  made  some 
acquaintances.     It  seems  so  extraordinary." 

"We  lived  so  very  much  alone,"  explained 
Yvonne.  "  Poor  Dina  did  n't  know  many 
people  —  no  one  liked  her.  With  one  excep- 
tion—  and  he  died  long  ago  —  I  think  I  am 
287 


Derelicts 

the  only  one  In  the  world  who  ever  loved 
Dina.     No  —  I  am  just  a  waif —  that 's  what 

am. 

In  her  simple  way  she  had  accounted  to 
him  accurately  for  her  life  since  her  rupture 
with  Everard.  At  first  she  had  been  too  sore 
at  heart  to  go  much  into  the  world.  Then 
Geraldine,  whose  influence  with  her  was  para- 
mount, continually  discouraged  her  from  re- 
newing old  acquaintanceships.  Her  friends 
had  literally  melted  away.  Had  she  so  chosen, 
she  might  have  interested  in  her  misfortunes  a 
score  of  professional  well-wishers.  But  Yvonne 
was  proud  in  many  unexpected  ways,  and 
would  have  died  rather  than  have  the  shame 
of  sending  the  hat  round  for  relief.  As  for 
communicating  with  Fulminster,  it  was  not 
to  be  thought  of. 

"  I  don't  care,"  she  added,  after  a  pause ;  "  I 
have  found  you  again." 

"Then  dry  your  poor  eyes,"  he  said  com- 
fortingly; "and  don't  think  any  more  of  the 
worries.  Don't  you  remember  how  happy 
you  made  me  once,  when  I  was  in  desperate 
straits  —  when  all  the  world  cast  me  off  but 
you  ?  You  are  still  the  only  being  who  knows 
me  and  cares  whether  I  live  or  die-     You  ar-e 

288 


La   Cigale 

neither  going  to  starve,  Yvonne,  nor  die  in  a 
workhouse.  As  long  as  I  have  a  penny  you 
shall  have  half  of  it.  Don't  think  of  any- 
thing more  than  the  immediate  future,  little 
woman.  We  will  manage  that  all  right.  Be 
comforted." 

He  spoke  earnestly,  leaning  forward  yvith 
his  arm  on  the  bed.  The  precariousness  o^ 
his  own  fortunes  scarcely  occurred  to  him. 
He  was  deeply  moved.  At  that  moment  he 
would  have  cut  off  his  right  hand  for  her. 

Yvonne  thanked  him  with  her  eyes,  which 
grew  very  soft  and  grateful.  His  man's 
strength  brought  her  comfort.  She  trusted 
him  implicitly,  as  she  had  all  her  life  trusted 
those  who  were  kind  to  her.  She  closed  her 
eyes  for  a  moment  with  a  little  sigh  of  relief 
She  was  so  content  to  yield  to  the  generous 
hand  that  was  taking  the  terrible  burden  from 
her  shoulders,  felt  as  if  she  could  go  to  sleep 
like  a  tired  child.  When  she  opened  her  eyes 
they  were  almost  smiling. 

"  I  '11  try  to  be  happy  again,  so  as  to  thank 
you,  Stephen,"  she  said. 

"Well,  here  is  something  for  you  —  what 
you  like  —  eat  one  to  show  me  you  are 
comforted." 

19  289 


Derelicts 

He  put  the  paper  bag  into  her  hand,  and, 
tilting  back  his  chair,  watched  her  pleased 
expression  as  she  peeped  into  the  mouth  and 
drew  out  one  of  the  cakes. 

"  Oh,  how  sweet  of  you  ! "  she  said,  with  a 
flash  of  her  old  sunlight. 

Suddenly  he  rose,  and  stood,  hands  in  pockets, 
by  the  window,  frowning  absently  at  the  gath- 
ering mist  of  evening  outside.  A  conviction 
was  forcing  itself  on  his  mind  —  a  cold  douche 
for  his  quixotic  impulses.  Obvious  right  and 
common-sense  prevailed. 

"Yvonne,"  he  said  turning  round.  "You 
had  no  quarrel  with  Everard,  had  you,  at 
parting?" 

"  Oh,  no,"  she  replied,  looking  up  round- 
eyed  from  her  paper-bag.  "  He  was  very  kind 
to  me." 

"  Have  you  written  to  him  about  this  ?  " 

"  No.  We  arranged  we  should  not  corre- 
spond. He  sent  me  word  when  he  was  going 
out  to  New  Zealand.  But  I  couldn't  let 
him  know  —  I  should  be  ashamed.  Oh,  no, 
Stephen,  I  could  n't  write  to  him  and  say,  *  I 
am  a  beggar  now,  please  give  me  charity.' 
Why  should  he  support  me  ? " 

"I  hate  questioning  you,"  said  Joyce  in 
290 


La  Cigale 

some  embarrassment,  "  but  —  is  it  repugnant 
to  you  to  —  to  think  of  Everard  ?  " 

"Why,  of  course  not,  Stephen.  It  was  a 
time  of  awful  pain  and  misery  —  but' if  he 
came  to  take  me  back  as  his  wife,  I  would  go 
to  him.  If  he  ever  can,  I  have  promised  that 
I  will." 

With  all  his  knowledge  of  her,  Joyce  was 
taken  aback  by  her  simple  candour. 

"  If  that  is  so,  why  on  earth  shrink  from 
reconsidering,  now,  his  former  offer  ?  "  he  asked, 
exceedingly  puzzled  at  her  point  of  view. 

"  You  tell  me  what  I  ought  to  do,  and  I 
will  do  it,"  said  Yvonne. 

"  You  must  write  to  Everard." 

"Very  well." 

"  Then  you  need  not  have  any  fears  at  all 
for  the  future.     It  will  be  all  so  simple." 

"How  can  I  thank  you?"  said  Yvonne. 
"  Oh,  if  I  could  only  sing  for  you !  But 
nothing  will  ever  give  me  back  my  voice  —  I 
am  a  useless  little  creature.  And  you  have 
been  so  good  to  me  to-day.  I  shall  never  for- 
get it  all  my  life." 

But  Joyce's  heart  was  at  ebb-tide  again. 
He  rose  soon,  and  took  his  hat  and  stick. 

"  There  is  no  reason  to  thank  me,  Yvonne,*" 
291 


Derelicts 

he  said,  with  bitterness.  "What  I  have 
done  for  you  has  cost  me  nothing  —  the 
cheapest  of  all  services ;  I  have  only  given 
you  advice." 

Yvonne  looked  at  him  wistfully. 

**  If  you  talk  like  that,  you  will  make  me 
cry  again.** 

"  Forgive  me,"  said  Joyce.     "  I  am  a  beast." 


CHAPTER    XVII 

YVONNE    PROPOSES 

It  was  night.  Yvonne  lay  wide  awake.  A 
suffused  sound  of  breathing  filled  the  air. 
Now  and  then  a  moan  or  a  smothered  cry  of 
pain  broke  sharply  upon  the  stillness.  The 
woman  in  the  adjacent  bed  began  to  murmur 
broken  words  in  her  sleep  :  "  For  the  children's 
sake,  Joe  —  my  poor  little  children  —  I  wish 
we  was  all  dead."  Some  poor  tragedy  re- 
enacting  itself  in  slumber.  Yvonne  listened 
pityingly.  The  woman  had  seemed  as  broken 
down  that  day  with  misery  as  she  herself.  Then 
silence  again,  and  Yvonne  fell  back  upon  her 
own  tragedy,  which  seemed  to  be  working 
itself  out  in  the  staring  wakeful  hours. 

She  had  not  written  to  Everard.  Pen,  ink, 
and  paper  had  been  brought.  The  sister  haci 
propped  her  up  with  pillows  in  a  posture 
especially  comfortable  for  writing.  But  her 
strength  had  failed  her.  To  ask  him  for 
money  was  more  than  her  pride  could  do. 
293 


Derelicts 

Instead,  she  had  written  a  long  outpouring  to 
Joyce,  which  lay  unposted  under  her  pillow. 

This  pride  was  a  seam  of  flint  in  her  soft 
nature.  She  would  have  returned  to  Everard 
as  his  wife,  willingly,  gratefully,  glad  to  lay  her 
tired  head  on  his  shoulder,  and  feel  his  strong 
protection  around  her  once  more.  But  from 
any  one  rather  than  him  would  she  accept 
charity.  Illogical,  irrational,  absurd  —  but  a 
reality  none  the  less  in  her  heart. 

Perhaps  it  was  a  protest  of  wounded  sex. 
If  Everard  had  treated  her  differently  on  that 
disastrous  day,  the  quivering  feminine  might 
.  have  gone  unscathed.  But  in  his  anger,  pain, 
and  disillusion  he  had  driven  her  wrongs 
towards  him  into  her  flesh,  almost  like  infideli- 
ties. She  was  too  generous  to  feel  resentful. 
An  offer  of  remarriage  would  be  a  natural 
acknowledgment  of  error.  To  accept  his  sup- 
port, apart  from  him,  stung  her  to  the  soul 
with  a  sense  of  being  cast  off  as  faithless  wife 
or  dishonest  mistress,  to  whom,  however,  he 
was  forgivingly  and  charitably  disposed.  And 
yet  what  was  she  to  do  ?  Joyce  would  save 
her  from  immediate  want,  but  she  could  not 
look  to  him  for  anything  but  temporary  assist- 
ance. More  was  preposterous. 
294 


Yvonne   Proposes 

At  last  she  gave  up  thinking.  Joyce,  with 
his  cleverness,  would  see  some  way  out  of  her 
difficulties.  Somewhat  comforted,  she  fell 
asleep.  The  next  day  was  long  and  intensely 
dismal.  The  more  clearly  she  saw  that  Joyce's 
counsel  was  the  only  course  to  follow,  the  more 
hateful  it  seemed  to  her  to  write  the  letter. 
She  put  it  off  from  hour  to  hour.  And  then 
the  terrible  blow  that  had  befallen  her  weighed 
upon  her  mind.  She  strove  to  realise  herself 
moving  about  the  world  without  a  voice.  It 
was  as  hard  to  grasp  as  the  conception  of 
herself  as  a  bodiless  shade  on  the  banks  of 
Acheron.  When  the  elusiveness  ceased,  and 
the  reality  loomed  upon  her  in  all  its  grimness, 
she  wept  bitterly.  The  consequence  was  that, 
in  her  still  weak  state,  she  broke  down  with  the 
mental  worry,  and,  when  Joyce  next  came,  he 
found  her  in  a  far  worse  s_2te  than  before. 
She  could  scarcely  move  or  speak.  Letter- 
writing  was  out  of  the  question.  By  the 
merest  chance  he  learned,  during  the  five  min- 
utes the  sister  allowed  him  to  have  with  her, 
that  she  had  not  yet  written  to  Everard. 

"  But  the  mail  goes  to-morrow,"  he  said. 
"  I  have  been  making  enquiries.  If  we  don't 
write  now,  we  shall  lose  a  month.  Shall  1 
295 


Derelicts 

write  to  Everard,  seeing  that  your  poor  little 
self  is  incapable  ?  " 

She  murmured  assent,  and  sighed  as  if  in 
grateful  relief.  Joyce  comforted  her  as  best  he 
could  and  left  her  reluctantly.  When  he  got 
home,  he  Trote  the  letter,  a  bald  statement  of 
facts  to  which  he  appended  his  signature  and 
the  address  of  his  lodgings.  He  sealed  it, 
directed  it,  in  his  nervous,  characteristic  hand- 
writing and  hurried  out  to  post  it  at  once.  It 
was  a  most  disagreeable  duty  over,  for  to  com- 
municate with  his  cousin  went  sorely  against 
the  grain.  A  pleasanter  duty  awaited  him,  as 
soon  as  he  could  settle  down  to  his  evening's 
work,  the  correction  of  the  first  batch  of  proofs 
from  the  publishers. 

In  the  course  of  time,  Yvonne  recovered  her 
':pirits  anc  was  on  the  mend  again.  Signs  of 
returning  strength  showed  themselves  in  her 
left  arm, '  ^ich,  together  with  the  throat  on  that 
side,  had  been  affected  by  the  disease.  Her 
speaking  voice  also  began  to  regain  some  of  its 
old  sweetness,  though  the  surgeons  confirmed 
their  statement  that  the  singing  voice  was 
irrevocably   gone. 

"  Do  say  they  are  wrong,"  said  Yvonne  cast- 
ing a  pleading  look  at  Joyce. 

20^ 


Yvonne   Proposes 

"  Perhaps  they  are,"  said  he ;  "  let  us  hope." 

"  Then  I  may  not  need  Everard's  money, 
after  all." 

"  You  will  for  a  couple  of  years,  at  least,**  he 
said  kindly.  "  But  you  may  be  able  to  pay  it 
back  afterwards." 

This  consoled  her,  and  she  began  to  build 
great  schemes.  On  another  occasion  she  said 
to  him  irrelevantly  : — 

"  Do  you  think  I  ought  to  write  to  Everard  ? " 
She  had  raised  him  by  this  time  to  the  position 
of  father  confessor.  A  certain  feminine  weak- 
ness in  Joyce's  nature,  developing  gradually, 
through  his  intercourse  with  her,  into  a  finer 
sensitiveness,  made  it  easy  for  her  to  give  him 
her  confidence,  to  speak  with  him  much  as  she 
used  to  speak  with  Geraldine.  And  yet,  he 
being  a  man,  his  utterances  on  such  questions, 
had  for  her  all  their  masculine  weight. 

"  It  is  a  matter  entirely  of  your  own  mclina- 
bon,"  he  replied  oracularly. 

"  But  I  don't  know  what  my  inclination  is," 
said  Yvonne.  "  Everard  once  told  me  that  it 
was  a  much  harder  thing  to  know  what  one's 
duty  was  than  to  do  it  when  you  know  what 
it  is.'* 

"  He  was  plagiarising  from  George  Eliot," 

2^7 


Derelicts 

said  Joyce,  not  ill-pleased  at  a  malicious  hit  at 
the  Bishop.  And  then,  teasingly  to  Yvonne  : 
"  And  r  m  sure  they  both  put  it  a  little  more 
grammatically." 

"  I  won't  talk  grammar,"  cried  Yvonne.  "  I 
always  hated  it.  It  is  silly  stuff.  You  under- 
stood perfectly  what  I  meant,  did  n't  you  ?  " 

"  Perfectly,"  said  Joyce. 

"  Then  what 's  the  good  of  grammar  ?  " 
cried  Yvonne,  triumphantly.  "  But  you  make 
me  forget  what  I  was  going  to  say.  It  was 
something  quite  clever.  Oh  yes  !  Substitute 
*  inclination '  for  *  duty,'  and  you  have  my 
difficulty.     Now  do  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do." 

"  Well,  wait  until  you  hear  from  Everard, 
and  then  write  him  a  nice  long  letter,"  said 
Joyce. 

"That's  just  what  I  wanted  to  do,"  said 
she ;  "  you  are  so  good  to  me." 

She  was  to  leave  the  hospital  in  January. 
The  time  was  rapidly  approaching.  Much  oi 
their  time  together  was  spent  in  the  discussion 
of  plans  for  the  immediate  future.  Yvonne 
wanted  to  sell  her  furniture,  which  Joyce  had 
inspected  and  found  in  safe  hands.  He  op- 
posed the  idea.  What  was  the  use,  when  slv 
would  want  it  again,  as  soon  as  she  was  com- 
298 


Yvonne   Proposes  . 

fbrtably  situated  ?  In  three  months  she  would 
be  in  receipt  of  funds.  Everard  might  cable 
her  back  a  remittance  long  before.  In  the 
meantime,  he  could  advance  her  a  lump  sum 
out  of  his  capital. 

"  Then  you  can  take  unfurnished  rooms  and 
put  in  your  own  things  at  once.  It  will  be 
much  cheaper." 

"  But  suppose  I  don't  pay  you  back,"  said 
Yvonne.     "  How  can  you  make  me  ?  " 

"  I  can  suggest  nothing  but  a  bill  of  sale  on 
the  furniture,"  he  replied  laughingly. 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Well,  you  sign  a  paper  saying  that  if  the 
debt  is  not  paid  in  three  months,  at  the  end  of 
that  time  I  can  put  in  the  brokers  and  sell 
your  furniture  and  take  all  the  money." 

"  Oh,  that  would  be  lovely  !  "  cried  Yvonne. 
"  Do  let  me  do  it.  I  should  feel  so  business- 
like.    Draw  it  up  now  and  I  '11  sign  it." 

"  It  will  have  to  be  registered,"  said  Joyce. 

"  Well,  register  it  then.  What's  to  prevent 
you  r 

"  I  was  only  jesting,"  said  Joyce. 

"  But  I  'm  quite  serious.  Don't  you  see 
how  serious  I  am  ?     Come  —  to  please  me." 

The  idea  caught  her  childish  fancy,  and  she 
299 


Derelicts 

spoke  quite  In  her  old,  gay  mood.  She  was 
sitting  up  now,  partially  dressed,  and,  being 
able  to  move  her  limbs  more  freely,  reached 
for  writing  materials  that  lay  on  the  little  table 
by  her  bed. 

"There,  draw  it  up  at  once,  as  fearfully 
legally  as  you  can,  with  all  kinds  of'afore- 
saids  '  in  it." 

Joyce  fell  into  her  humour,  and  drew  up  the 
document  in  due  form,  read  it  over  to  her 
solemnly,  and  called  one  of  the  nurses  to  wit- 
ness the  signatures.  Then  he  wrote  out  a 
cheque  for  the  amount  of  the  loan,  which 
she  locked  up  in  her  despatch-box.  He  went 
away  with  the  bill  of  sale  in  his  pocket.  On 
his  next  visit  he  informed  her  that  it  had  been 
registered  and  that  he  would  be  a  merciless 
creditor.  The  frivolity  of  the  proceedings 
cheered  him. 

Meanwhile,  the  real  problem  of  Yvonne's 
arrangements  presented  itself.  The  idea  of 
going  at  once  into  unfurnished  rooms  was  aban- 
doned. She  was  far  too  weak  and  helpless  as 
yet  for  the  worries  of  housekeeping.  He  sug- 
gested a  boarding-house.  But  Yvonne  shrank 
from  the  prospect  of  living  among  strangers. 

"  Besides,  you  could  n't  come  and  see  me  as 
loo  ^,. 


Yvonne   Proposes 

often  as  I  should  like,"  she  added,  with  a 
little  air  of  worldly  wisdom.  "You  haven't 
an  idea  what  scandal  is  talked  in  those  places." 
So  Joyce  quickly  acquiesced  in  her  taboo  of 
boarding-houses,  and  found  the  choice  of  domi- 
cile narrowed  down  to  furnished  apartments. 

Yvonne  was  beginning  to  be  a  vital  interest 
in  his  life.  On  the  days  that  the  hospital  was 
not  open  to  him,  he  sent  her  little  notes  of  his 
doings  and  of  such  things  as  might  amuse  her. 
In  her  helpless  dependence  she  grew  to  be 
what  Noakes  had  been  to  him  in  his  latter 
days  —  with  the  sweet  and  subtle  difference 
made  by  her  sex.  He  had  moods  almost  of 
happiness.  Yet,  like  Noakes,  Yvonne  had  not 
the  power  of  freeing  him  from  himself,  from 
the  awful  memories,  from  the  taint  that  clung 
to  him.  His  crime  and  its  punishment  was 
his  hair-shirt,  for  ever  next  the  sensitive  skin, 
never  for  the  shortest  intervals  forgotten. 
Small  incidents  were  never  wanting  to  bring 
back  the  old  burning  anguish.  Already  in  the 
streets  he  had  passed,  unrecognised,  two  old 
prison-associates.  The  sight  of  them  was  hate- 
ful. Once,  in  the  Strand,  he  came  face  to  face 
with  a  man,  his  chief  intimate  in  that  fashion- 
able demi-reputable  world  which  had  drawn 
301 


Derelicts 

him  to  his  precipice.  The  man  cut  him  dead. 
On  another  occasion  he  met  a  troop  of  his 
cousins  from  Holland  Park  on  the  terrace  of 
the  British  Museum.  He  noticed  a  girl  rec- 
ognize him  and  turn  round  another  way,  with 
d  start,  as  he  sprang  hurriedly  by  through  the 
folding  doors.  After  such  encounters,  he  cow- 
ered under  the  sense  of  everlasting  disgrace. 
The  old  longing  that  always  had  lain  dormant 
within  him  revived  with  intense  poignancy ; 
the  longing  to  redeem  his  self-respect  by  some 
wild  heroic  deed  of  atonement.  Sometimes  he 
thought  of  realising  all  his  capital,  including 
the  publisher's  eighty  pounds  and  giving  it  to 
Yvonne.  But  soon  she  would  be  beyond  the 
need  of  his  help  and  his  sacrifice  would  be 
merely  silly.  Common-sense  leads  us  generally 
to  the  most  hopeless  commonplace.  Nor  did 
patient  bearing  of  his  lot  appeal  to  his  sensitive 
fancy  as  an  expiation.  The  self-respect  that 
would  enable  him  to  face  the  world's  back  with 
cheerful  calm  could  only  be  purchased  by  some 
great  self-sacrifice.  But  what  chances  for  such, 
were  offered  in  his  humdrum,  poverty-stricken 
life? 

The  days  passed  uneventfully.     He  wrote 
from  morning  to  night,  either  in  the  Museum  or 
302 


Yvonne   Proposes 

in  his  attic,  with  a  fierce  determination  to  earn 
a  livelihood  that  braced  his  powers.  His  at- 
tempts at  occasional  journalism  were  fairly 
encouraging.  The  new  novel  grew  daily  in 
gloomy  bulk.  Often,  on  Yvonne-less  days, 
he  strolled  up  to  the  secondhand  bookshop, 
where  he  had  bought  the  French  novels,  and 
chatted  with  the  proprietor,  with  whom  he  had 
struck  up  an  acquaintance.  He  was  a  snuffy, 
rheumy-eyed  old  man,  Ebenezer  Runcle  by 
name,  with  chronic  bronchitis  and  a  deep  dis- 
dain for  the  remnant  of  the  universe  outside 
his  bookshop.  But  for  the  lumbering,  cha- 
otic, higgledy-piggledy  world  of  volumes  within 
its  book-lined  walls,  he  had  a  passionate  vener- 
ation. Joyce  found  him  a  mine  of  extraordin- 
ary and  useless  information.  To  sit  on  a  pile 
of  books  and  listen  to  unceasing  gossip  about 
Gregory  Nazianzene,  Sozomen,  Evagrius, 
Photius  —  about  Aristotle,  Averrhoes,  Duns 
Scotus,  and  the  Schoolmen  —  about  Hakluyt 
and  Purchas  —  about  forgotten  historians, 
churchmen,  poets,  dramatists,  of  all  countries  in 
Europe ;  to  turn  over  musty  old  editions  of 
famous  printers,  the  Aldi,  Junta,  Elzevirs,  Ste- 
phani,  Allobrandi,  Jehans,  which  the  old  man 
shuffled  off  to  procure  from  dim  recesses  of  the 
303 


Derelicts 

shelves,  was  a  new  intellectual  delight.  It  was  a 
renewal  of  the  keen  book-interest  of  his  Oxford 
days,  and  a  mental  stimulus  such  as  he  had  not 
received  for  many  weary  years.  Gradually  it 
appeared  that  Mr.  Runcle  looked  forward  to 
his  visits ;  and  Joyce,  who  had  been  shv  at 
first  of  trespassing  upon  his  time,  gladly  took 
advantage  of  his  welcome.  Sometimes  he 
helped  the  old  man  in  the  constant  work  of 
rearranging  and  cataloguing  the  stock.  One 
afternoon,  he  found  him  wheezing  so  painfully 
with  his  complaint,  that  he  persuaded  him  to 
sit  in  the  little  back  parlour,  while  he  himself 
took  charge  of  the  establishment  and  served 
customers  till  closing  time.  After  that  he 
dropped  into  the  habit  of  playing  salesman. 
The  old  man  seemed  a  lonely,  pathetic  figure. 
Joyce's  heart  instinctively  warmed  toward  him. 
One  afternoon,  toward  the  middle  of  Janu- 
ary, he  visited  Yvonne  for  the  last  time  in 
the  hospital.  She  received  him,  as  on  the  last 
two  or  three  occasions,  in  the  sister's  little  sit- 
ting-room just  outside  the  ward.  For  the  first 
time,  however,  she  was  completely  dressed,  and 
only  now  did  Joyce  realise  how  thin  and  frag- 
ile she  had  become.  She  looked  absurdly  small 
in  the  great  cane  armchair  before  the  fire 
304 


Yvonne   Proposes 

"So  I  am  to  call  for  you  on  Thursday  at 
twelve  and  carry  you  off  to  your  new  abode," 
he  said. 

"  Have  you  settled  yet  ?  "  asked  Yvonne. 

"  No,  not  yet.  If  I  can  get  the  place  in 
Elm  Park,  I  shall  give  up  the  other.  I  shall 
hear  to-morrow." 

Yvonne  looked  wistfully  into  the  fire,  and 
sighed. 

"  I  shall  feel  awfully  lonesome  there,  by  my- 
self. I  am  beginning  to  dread  it.  You  won't 
think  me  silly,  will  you  ?  I  used  not  to  mind 
living  alone.  But  then  it  was  different.  You  '11 
come  and  see  me  very,  very  often.  Bring  your 
writing,  and  I  '11  be  as  quiet  as  a  mouse  and 
won't  disturb  you.  You  don't  know  how 
frightened  and  nervous  I  am.  I  suppose  it 's 
because  I  have  been  so  ill." 

"You  poor  little  thing,"  said  Joyce,  looking 
down  upon  her,  as  he  stood  on  the  hearthrug, 
"  I  wish  I  knew  some  motherly  soul  to  take 
care  of  you  —  or  that  I  could  take  care  of  you 
myself,"  he  added,  with  a  smile. 

"  Oh,  I  wish  you  could,"  cried  Yvonne,  pit- 
eously,  with  an  appealing  glance.  "  Oh,  Stephen 
—  could  n't  you  ?  I  would  n't  give  you  much 
trouble." 

20  305 


Derelicts 

"  Do  you  mean,  Yvonne,  that  you  would 
like  me  to  get  lodgings  in  the  same  house 
as  you  ? "  asked  Joyce,  with  a  sudden  flash  in 
his  eyes. 

"  Yes,"  said  Yvonne.  "  Just  at  first.  Until 
I  feel  stronger.  I  have  been  longing  to  ask 
you,  but  I  did  n't  dare.  Don't  think  me 
selfish  and  horrid." 

The  notion  dawned  upon  him  like  an  inspira- 
tion. Why  had  he  not  thought  of  it  before  ? 
Why  should  he  not  find  a  garret  above  her 
rooms  whence  he  could  look  protectingly 
down  upon  her,  in  brotherly  affection,  instead 
of  leaving  her  ill  and  alone  to  the  dubious 
mercy  of  landladies  and  lodging-house  ser- 
vants? He  was  quite  bewildered  by  the  charm 
of  her  proposal. 

"  But,  Yvonne,  do  you  know  what  un- 
dreamed-of happiness  you  are  offering  me  ?  " 
he  said. 

"  Then  you  would  like  it  ^ "  she  cried 
gladly. 

"  Why,  my  dear  child  !  "  said  Joyce  ;  and  he 
walked  about  the  room  to  express  his  feelings. 

"  I  have  thought  it  all  out,"  said  Yvonne, 
sagely.  "  We  can  go  to  much  cheaper  rooms 
than  you  intended  me  to  have,  so  that  you  can 
3"^    . 


Yvonne   Proposes 

pay  the  same  for  your  own  lodgings  as  you  pay 
now.  I  would  n't  lead  you  into  extravagances 
for  anything  in  the  world." 

"  If  it  comes  to  that,"  said  Joyce,  "  the  sec- 
ond floor  is  vacant  where  I  lodge  now." 

"  But  that  is  delightful !  "  cried  Yvonne. 
"  The  fates  have  arranged  it  on  purpose  for  us." 

They  talked  for  a  while  over  the  new  plan. 
Joyce's  acquiescence,  relieving  her  of  much 
nervous  'dread  of  loneliness,  raised  her  spirits 
wonderfully. 

"You  won't  tyrannise -over  me  too  much, 
will  you  ?  If  I  am  going  out  with  tan  shoes, 
you  won't  send  me  indoors  to  put  on  black 
ones  ?     Promise  me." 

He  laughed.  The  idea  of  such  an  attitude 
towards  her  seemed  to  belong  more  to  comic 
opera  than  to  real  life.  And  yet  he  felt  his 
authority.  She  regarded  him  with  the  implicit 
trust  of  a  stray  child. 

The  sister  came  in  and  stayed  whilst  after- 
noon tea  was  in  progress.  She  had  built  up  a 
lone  woman's  romance  for  these  two,  and  had 
taken  them  both  into  her  friendship.  Hence 
the  use  of  the  sitting-room,  the  tea  and  her 
wise  counsels  to  Joyce  as  to  the  proper  care  o» 
Yvonne.  When  she  left  them  alone  again,  a 
307 


Derelicts 

silence  fell  upon  them,  and  with  it  the  gloomy 
cloud  upon  Joyce,  that  no  sunshine  could  dis- 
pel for  long.  He  looked  broodingly  into  the 
fire,  the  lines  deepening  on  his  face,  the  old 
pain  in  his  eyes. 

Was  it  a  right  thing  that  he  was  about  to  do 
—  to  associate  his  tarnished  name  with  hers  ? 
It  was  all  very  well  to  dream  of  the  sweetness 
and  light  that  daily  companionship  with  her 
would  bring  into  his  life  —  but  was  he  fit, 
socially,  morally,  spiritually,  to  live  with  her  ? 
It  was  taking  advantage  of  her  innocence.  His 
sensitiveness  shrank,  as  if  from  the  suggestion 
of  a  baser  disloyalty  to  her  trustingness. 

Yvonne,  leaning  back  in  her  long  chair,  kept 
her  dark  eyes  fixed  upon  him.  At  first  she 
wondered  at  his  sudden  gloom,  and  fancied  dis- 
tressedly  that  it  proceeded  from  her  proposal. 
But  suddenly  an  illumination,  such  as  she  had 
never  in  her  life  experienced,  lit  up  her  mind, 
and  caused  her  a  strange  little  thrill.  She 
called  his  name  softly.  He  started,  turned, 
rose  at  her  sign  and  bent  low  over  her  chair. 

"  I   want  to  come  and  live  with  you  more 

than  ever  now,  Stephen,"  she  said ;  and  as  she 

spoke  her  voice  seemed  to  have  regained  its 

musical   softness.     "  I  mean  to  try  and  drive 

308 


Yvonne  Proposes 

away  the  sad  thoughts  from  you.  Perhaps, 
after  all,  though  I  can't  sing,  I  may  do  a  little 
good  in  the  world." 

Her  tenderness  touched  him.  He  wished 
she  was  a  child  that  he  might  kiss  her.  The 
temptation  to  receive  this  boon  the  gods  were 
giving  him  was  too  strong.  He  yielded  en- 
tirely. And  from  that  hour  began  Yvonne's 
conscious  battle  with  the  powers  of  darkness  in 
the  desolate  depths  of  a  man's  heart. 


309 


CHAPTER    XVIII 


DRIFTWOOD 


They  lived  together  four  months,  Yvonne  in 
her  comfortable  rooms,  Joyce  in  his  attic  over- 
head. At  first  she  had  been  helpless,  requir- 
ing much  aid  both  from  Joyce  and  from  the 
landlady,  over  whom  she  had  cast  her  accus- 
tomed charm ;  but  with  the  early  spring 
weather  she  recovered  full  use  of  her  limbs, 
and  strength  enough  to  fight  her  small  battles 
for  herself  To  Joyce  it  had  been  a  time  of 
consolation  in  many  black  moods.  He  dreaded 
the  arrival  of  the  New  Zealand  mail,  which  he 
calculated  would  bring  Yvonne  her  freedom. 
It  was  almost  a  relief  when  he  assured  himself 
by  enquiries  that  no  hews  had  come  from  the 
Bishop.  He  had  another  month  of  Yvonne's 
companionship  to  look  forward  to.  When  that 
passed,  however,  and  the  second  mail  from  New 
Zealand  proved  as  fruitless  as  the  first,  he  was 
forced  to  look  at  matters  from  a  practical  point 
310 


Driftwood 

of  view.  He  had  already  far  exceeded  the 
original  advance  he  had  made  to  Yvonne. 
Under  the  assurance  that  he  would  be  reim- 
bursed, he  had  not  scrupled  to  spend  money 
freely  on  little  luxuries  and  comforts.  At  th( 
present  rate  of  living,  therefore,  another  two 
months  would  see  him  at  the  end  of  his  re- 
sources, which  included  money  that  he  had 
received  in  advance  for  the  copyright  of  his 
book.  His  current  income  from  occasional 
journalism  was  ridiculously  small.  The  new 
novel  was  only  half-way  towards  completion. 
Poverty  stared  him  in  the  face. 

As  a  last  resource  he  went  to  Everard's 
bankers ,  but  only  to  learn  that  his  cousin  had 
withdrawn  his  account.  He  found  Yvonne 
anxiously  awaiting  the  result  of  this  errand.  As 
he  entered,  she  rose  impulsively,  scattering 
scissors  and  spool  of  cotton  from  her  lap.  She 
read  his  failure  in  his  face. 

"  What  is  to  be  done  ?  "  she  asked,  when  he 
had  finished  his  report. 

"  I  don't  know,"  replied  Joyce,  truthfully. 

He  looked  at  her,  puzzled  and  distressed. 

"  You  must  pay  yourself  out  of  the  furniture 
and  let  me  go,"  said  Yvonne. 

"  Where  would  you  go  to  ?  '* 
311 


Derelicts 

•*  I  don't  know,"  said  Yvonne  in  her  turn. 

At  the  picture  of  helpless  dismay  Joyce  broke 
*nto  a  laugh. 

"  Oh,  how  can  you  laugh,  when  I  owe  you 
all  this  money  ?  "  she  said,  with  a  choke  in  her 
voice. 

"  Because  I  am  glad,  Yvonne,  that  fate  seems 
to  compel  me  to  go  on  looking  after  you." 

"  But  how  can  you  go  on  ?  How  can  I 
burden  you  any  further  ?  " 

"  Don't  talk  about  burdens,"  he  said  gently. 
^  You  repay  me  twice  over  for  what  little  I  have 
given  you." 

"  But  the  furniture  is  not  worth  all  that," 
said  Yvonne. 

"  What  has  the  furniture  to  do  with  it  t* 

"  Why  it  is  yours,  is  n't  it?  " 

"  How,  mine  ^.  " 

"The  bill  of  sale,"  replied  Yvonne  seriously. 

"  Oh,  you  dear  little  goose,"  cried  Joyce, 
**  you  don't  suppose  I  am  going  to  sell  you 
up!" 

"  Why  not  —  if  you  need  the  money  ?  The 
furniture  is  all  your  own." 

"  How  can  it  be  when  I  don't  claim  it  ?  " 

Y'vonne  shook  her  head.  Ordinarily  the 
most  easily  swayed  of  women,  now  and  then 
312 


Driftwood 

she  was  inconvincible.  She  had  got  it  into  her 
head  that  the  furniture  had  lapsed  by  sheer  law 
of  England  into  his  possession,  and  no  argument 
could  move  her.  He  explained  that  he  could 
renew  the  bill.  She  dismissed  the  explanation 
with  a  little  foreign  gesture. 

"  I  own  nothing  in  the  world  but  what  I 
stand  up  in,"  she  persisted. 

"Then  you*re  worse  off  than  ever,"  said 
Joyce. 

"  I  am,"  she  said  despondently.  "  Is  n't  it 
strange  to  want  money  !  I  never  knew  what  it 
was  before." 

There  was  an  odd  pathos  in  her  face  that 
touched  him. 

"  Cheer  up,  little  woman.  Nothing  Is  ever 
so  bad  as  it  looks." 

Comforting  words  were  nice,  but  they  did 
not  change  the  position.  Money  had  to  be 
obtained.     Where  was  it  to  come  from  ? 

"  I  suppose  I  must  write  to  Everard,  since 
your  letter  has  miscarried." 

"  Letters  don't  miscarry  nowadays,"  said 
Joyce.  "They  don't  even  do  so  in  novels. 
Still,  you  had  better  write.  I  wish  you  felt 
70U  need  n't." 

"  So  do  I." 

313 


Derelicts 

•*  We  shall  have  to  part  as  soon  as  he  cables 
a  remittance." 

"  Oh,  I  wish  we  could  get  along  as  we  are," 
said  Yvonne.  "  I  have  been  so  happy  here 
with  you." 

"  Then  let  us  fight  it  out  between  us,"  ex- 
claimed Joyce  resolutely.  "  You  '11  soon  be 
able  to  get  some  singing  lessons,  and  I  '11 
find  a  situation  as  railway  porter,  or  some- 
thing, and  we  '11  rub  along  somehow  till  better 
times." 

"  Oh,  you  don't  know  how  much  gladder  I 
should  be  ! "  cried  Yvonne  with  a  sparkle  in 
her  eyes.  "  If  I  only  could  earn  something  — 
not  be  a  drag  upon  you  !  Oh,  I  would 
sooner  lead  the  life  of  a  poor,  poor  woman,  in 
the  humblest  way,  than  take  Everard's  money 
—  you  know  that." 

"  We  can't  go  on  living  here,"  said  Joyce, 
gently. 

"  Of  course  not.  We  will  go  to  much 
cheaper  rooms  and  live  like  working-folks.  I 
can  do  lots  of  things,  lay  fires,  make  pastry  —  " 

"  Dumplings  will  be  as  far  as  we  can  get," 
said  Joyce. 

"  Well,  then,  they  '11  be  beautiful  dumplings," 
•aid  Yvonne. 

314 


Driftwood 

**  And  I  dare  say  we  can  find  a  way  to  settle 
the  furniture  question,"  said  Joyce.  "  I  shall 
begin  to  look  about  for  a  cheap  place  at  once." 

So  the  trouble  fell  from  Yvonne  for  a  time. 
Now  that  she  had  decided  to  make  no  further 
appeal  to  Everard,  but  to  endeavour  once  more 
to  earn  her  livelihood,  she  felt  lighter-hearted. 
Her  attachment  to  Stephen  had  grown  so  strong 
that  she  had  contemplated  the  loss  of  his  daily 
protection  with  dismay.  The  solitary  life  fright- 
ened her.  The  vicissitudes  through  which  she 
had  passed,  the  loss  of  her  voice  especially,  had 
taken  away  her  nerve.  At  first,  she  had  been 
so  weak  from  her  long  illness  and  her  helpless 
arm,  that  she  found  Stephen's  presence  an  un- 
speakable comfort,  and  did  not  speculate  upon 
any  anomaly  in  her  position.  Bv  tne  time  she 
regained  health,  their  life  under  tne  same  roof 
appeared  in  the  natural  order  of  every-day 
things.  And  it  was  very  pleasant.  Besides, 
with  the  daily  intercourse,  came  a  deeper  com- 
prehension of  his  shipwreck.  She  began  to 
realise  that  the  material  dependence  on  her  side 
was  reciprocated  by  a  spiritual  dependence  on 
his.  It  awoke  new  and  delicious  stirrings  of 
pride  to  feel  her  influence  over  him,  to  find 
herself  of  use  to  a  man.  Once  she  could  sing, 
315 


Derelicts 

amuse  —  yield  her  lips  with  kind  passivity  to 
satisfy  strange,  unknown  needs.  She  had  re- 
garded herself  with  wistful  seriousness,  in  her 
relations  with  men,  as  a  poor  little  instrument 
for  men  to  play  on.  They  fingered  the  stops, 
extracted  what  music  they  could,  and  then  laid 
the  pipe  aside  while  they  devoted  themselves 
to  the  business  of  th?  world.  But  Stephen 
approached  her  differently  from  other  men. 
He  did  not  want  her  for  her  voice ;  he  did 
not  throw  himself  weary  into  a  chair  and  say, 
"  Chatter  and  amuse  me ;  "  and  he  did  not  look 
at  her  with  eyes  yearning  for  her  lips.  But  his 
needs,  quite  other  than  she  had  known  before, 
wevQ  revealing  themselves  to  her  with  gradual 
distinctness.  She  was  learning  his  humbled 
pride,  his  lacerated  self-respect,  his  ingrained 
sense  of  degradation,  his  crying  need  of  sym- 
pathy and  encouragement  and  ennobling  object 
in  life.  The  strong  man  came  to  her,  Yvonne, 
to  be  healed  and  strengthened  ;  and,  from  some 
fresh-discovered  fountain  within  her,  she  was 
finding  remedy  for  maladies  and  sustaining 
draughts  for  weakness.  A  new  conception  of 
herself  was  dawning  before  her,  in  a  great, 
quiet  happiness;  and  her  nature  unconsciously 
expanded. 

316 


Drift 


WOO( 


Thus  a  twofold  instinct  urged  her  to  throvf 
in  her  lot  with  Joyce. 

He  passed  a  very  anxious  week.  It  seemed 
as  if  his  old  bitter  and  fruitless  search  for  work 
was  to  be  repeated.  Neither  could  he  find 
suitable  apartments.  "  I  'm  afraid  it  will  have 
to  come  to  the  workhouse,"  he  said  in  dejected 
jest. 

"  Oh,  that  will  never  do ! "  cried  Yvonne. 
"They  would  separate  us." 

She  had  been  more  successful.  Two  or  three 
of  the  ex-pupils  to  whom  she  had  written  had 
replied,  promising  their  recommendation.  With 
a  shrewdness  that  won  Joyce's  admiration  she 
used  the  address  of  her  former  agents,  who 
willingly  forwarded  her  letters.  But  the  sight 
of  the  familiar  office,  whither  she  had  gone  to 
beg  this  favour,  had  brought  her  a  bitter  pang 
of  regret  for  the  lost  voice.  She  had  cried  all 
the  way  home  and  then  looked  anxiously  in  the 
glass,  afraid  lest  Joyce  should  perceive  the  traces 
of  her  tears.  She  strove  valiantly  to  cheer  him 
in  his  worries. 

At  last  Joyce  went  to  his  friend,  the  second- 
hand bookseller  in  Islington,  whom  he  had  seen 
less  frequently  since  his  life  with  Yvonne,  and 
there,  to  his  delighted  surprise,  found  a  solution 
51/ 


Derelicts 

Ijr  all  his  difficulties.  The  old  man  was  grow- 
ing too  infirm  to  carry  on  the  business  single- 
handed.     He  wanted  an  assistant. 

"  And  where  am  I  to  get  one  ? "  he  said 
querulously.  "  I  don't  want  a  damned  fool 
who  does  n't  know  an  Elzevir  from  a  Catnach." 

"  I  '11  come  like  a  shot  if  you  '11  have  me," 
said  Joyce,  eagerly. 

"  You  ?  Why,  you  *re  a  gentleman  and  a 
scholar,"  said  the  old  man. 

"  So  much  the  better,"  returned  Joyce,  laugh- 
ing. "  There  will  be  something  mediaeval  about 
the  arrangement.'* 

The  bargain  was  quickly  struck.  Further- 
more, when  Joyce  explained  his  domestic  con- 
siderations, the  old  man  offered  him,  at  a  small 
rent,  three  rooms  in  the  house,  above  the  shop. 
There  they  were,  he  said ;  they  were  not  used  , 
he  once  took  in  lodgers,  but  they  pestered  his 
life  out ;  so  he  had  made  up  his  mind  not  to  be 
worried  with  them  any  more.  However,  Joyce 
was  an  exception.  He  was  quite  welcome  to 
them  ;  he  himself  only  wanted  a  bedroom  and 
the  little  back-parlour  on  the  ground-floor. 

These  reserved  quarters,  the  vacant  three 
rooms  and  a  kitchen  with  an  adjoining  servant's 
bedroom,  made  up  the  internal  arrangements 


Driftwood 

of  the  old-fashioned,  rather  dilapidated  house, 
Joyce  \¥ent  up  to  inspect.  At  first  his  heart 
sank.  The  rooms  were  only  half-furnished, 
the  paper  was  mouldy,  dirt  abounded,  the  ceil- 
ings were  low  and  blackened.  However,  many 
of  these  drawbacks  could  be  remedied.  Mr. 
Runcle  promised  a  thorough  cleansing  and  re- 
papering,  whereat  Joyce's  spirits  rose  again. 
Next  to  the  sitting-room  was  a  fair-sized  bed- 
room for  Yvonne ;  upstairs  a  little  room  for  him- 
self. He  enquired  about  attendance.  The 
old  man  explained  that  a  woman  lived  on  the 
premises.  She  did  for  him  and  would  doubt- 
less be  glad  to  do  for  Joyce  also,  for  a  small 
sum  per  week. 

By  the  end  of  a  few  days  they  were  settled 
in  their  new  abode.  The  bits  of  furniture,  that 
had  been  the  subject  of  such  dispute,  made  the 
place  habitable.  Re-papered  and  whitewashed 
and  hung  with  curtains  and  a  few  pictures  out 
of  Yvonne's  salvage,  it  looked  almost  cosy. 
But  the  threadbare  carpet  and  rug,  the  horse- 
hair sofa,  and  odd,  rickety  chairs  and  the  small- 
paned,  cheaply-painted  windows  gave  it  an 
aspect  of  poverty  that  nothing  could  effaca 

"  It  *s  not  a  palace,"  said  Joyce  ruefully, 
319 


Derelicts 

looking  round  him  on  the  day  they  took  defi- 
nite possession.  "  You  will  miss  many  com- 
forts, Yvonne." 

"  I  'm  not  going  to  miss  anything,"  she  re- 
plied, "  except  worry  and  anxiety.  I  am  going 
to  be  perfectly  happy  here." 

"You  don't  know  what  a  sweet  incongruity 
you  are  among  these  surroundings,"  he  said; 
"  you  remind  one  of  a  dainty  piece  of  lace  sewn 
on  to  corduroys.  Oh,  I  hope  this  life  won't 
be  too  rough  for  you  —  we  shall  have  to  prac- 
tise so  many  miserable  little  economies  — 
coals,  gas,  food  —  " 

Yvonne  broke  into  a  sunny  laugh.  "  Oh, 
that  *s  just  like  a  man  !  Did  you  ever  hear  of 
a  well-regulated  woman  that  did  n't  love  to 
economise  ?  When  I  was  at  Fulminster,  you 
have  no  idea  how  I  cut  down  expenses ! " 

She  turned  to  take  off  her  hat  before  the 
discoloured  gilt  mirror  over  the  mantelpiece, 
and  then  threw  it  quickly  on  the  round  centre 
table  and  faced  him  again. 

"  I  shall  be  quite  as  happy  here  as  I  was  in 
Fulminster.  Perhaps  happier,  in  a  sense. 
You  know,  I  always  felt  so  small  in  that  big 
house.     This  just  suits  me." 

Thus  began  the  odd  life  together  of  these 
320 


Drift 


WOO( 


two  waifs,  abandoned  by  the  world.  The  pre- 
vious four  months  had  been  invested  with  an 
air  of  transience.  Yvonne's  presence  beneath 
the  same  roof  as  Joyce  had  been  a  temporary 
arrangement  until  suppHes  should  come  from 
the  Bishop.  They  had  not  joined  in  house- 
keeping. Whenever  Joyce  went  down  to 
Yvonne,  he  had  done  so  purely  in  the  char- 
acter of  a  visitor.  From  that  state  of  things 
to  this  life  in  common  was  a  great  step.  And 
yet  to  each  it  seemed  natural.  Society  being 
unaware  of  their  existence,  they  felt  no  partic- 
ular need  of  observing  Society's  conventions. 
To  the  old  bookseller,  to  the  servant,  to  each 
other,  they  were  brother  and  sister,  and  that 
was  enough. 

Joyce  found  his  work  fairly  light.  The  im- 
portant part  of  the  business  was  carried  on  by 
orders  through  the  post.  Purchases  of  "rare 
and  curious  books  "  at  prices  per  volume  from- 
three  pounds  upwards  are  rarely  made  casually 
over  the  counter.  Joyce  knew  this,  of  course, 
but  he  was  nevertheless  surprised  at  the  exten- 
siveness  of  Ebenezer  Runcle's  connection. 
Every  morning  there  was  considerable  corre- 
spondence to  be  got  through,  parcels  of  books 
to  be  made  up  and  despatched,  the  slips  for 
21  321 


Derelicts 

ihe  monthly  catalogue  to  be  kept  up  to  date. 
After  that,  if  no  new  stock  was  brought  in, 
there  was  Httle  else  to  do  but  wait  for  custo- 
mers. The  long  spells  of.  leisure  were  invalu- 
able to  him  for  writing.  He  found  his  mind 
worked  smoothly  in  the  quiet,  musty  atmos- 
phere of  the  books.  There  they  were,  in  bril- 
liant rows ,  around  the  walls,  on  bookcases 
running  longitudinally  through  the  shop,  piled 
in  stacks  by  the  doorway,  in  corners,  upon 
trestles,  anywhere.  A  great  rampart  of  them 
cut  off  the  draught  of  the  door.  In  the  small 
enclosed  space  thus  formed  was  a  stove,  on 
one  side  of  ^which  he  placed  his  writing-table, 
while  on  the  other,  in  a  dilapidated  cane  arm- 
chair, sat  the  old  man,  a  bent,  wheezing  figure, 
deep  in  his  beloved  patristic  literature. 

At  intervals  during  the  day  he  saw  Yvonne, 
who  was  proud  and  happy  in  the  superinten- 
dence of  her  humble  establishment.  Not  long 
after  the  move,  some  welcome  singing-lessons 
came,  at  a  house  in  Russell  Square,  and  ena- 
bled her  to  contribute  her  mite  towards  the 
household  expenses.  It  was  a  hard  problem 
to  make  ends  meet  sometimes,  on  what  Joyce 
was  able  to  set  apart  for  housekeeping,  and  at 
first,  through  lack  of  experience  in  close  econ- 
322 


Drift 


WOO( 


omy,  she  made  dreadful  blunders.  Then  she 
came  in  tearful  penitence  to  Joyce.  On  one 
of  these  occasions,  he  had  arrived  for  dinner, 
and  found  her  gazing  piteously  upon  three 
meatless  bones,  standing  like  ribs  of  wreck  in 
a  beach  of  potatoes.  She  had  thought  enough 
had  been  left  from  yesterday  for  two  more 
meals.  He  consoled  her  as  best  he  could, 
and  tackled  the  potatoes.  But  she  watched 
him  with  so  miserable  and  remorse-stricken  a 
face  that  at  last  he  broke  out  laughing.  And 
then,  Yvonne,  who  was  quick  to  see  the  light 
side  of  things,  laughed  too  and  forgot  her 
troubles.  After  a  time,  no  housewife  in  the 
neighbourhood  kept  a  shrewder  eye  upon  the 
butcher. 

The  evenings  they  usually  spent  together, 
working  or  talking.  Now  and  then,  at  Joyce's 
invitation,  the  old  man  would  come  in,  and 
the  trio  would  talk  literature,  the  old  man 
vaunting  the  ancients  and  Joyce  defending  the 
moderns,  until  a  veritable  Battle  of  the  Books 
was  recontested,  while  Yvonne  sat  by,  in  awed 
silence,  wondering  at  the  vastness  of  human 
learning.  Often  he  wrote  or  discussed  the 
novel  with  her.  In  this  she  took  the  deepest 
interest.  The  intellectual  processe<\  involved 
323 


Derelicts 

were  a  perpetual  mystery  to  her,  and  caused 
her  to  place  Joyce  on  a  pinnacle  of  genius. 
But  her  sympathy  and  enthusiasm  helped 
him  as  few  other  things  could.  And  grad- 
ually her  influence  made  itself  felt  in  his 
writing.  His  sympathies  widened,  his  aspect 
upon  life  softened.  Planned  to  reveal  the 
bitter  sordidness  of  broken  lives,  and  half 
written  in  a  grey,  hopeless  atmosphere,  imper- 
ceptibly the  book  lost  in  harshness,  grew  in 
tenderness  and  humanity.  And  this  corre- 
sponded to  the  softening  in  the  nature  of  the 
man  himself 

Yet  now  and  then  incidents  occurred  that 
brought  back  the  past  in  all  its  gloom.  One 
in  particular  weighed  for  many  days  afterwards 
upon  his  mind. 

It  was  a  sultry  night.  He  had  come  out 
for  a  stroll  down  Upper  Street  and  High 
Street,  before  going  to  bed.  Outside  the 
Angel,  the  limit  of  his  walk,  he  lingered  a 
moment  and  was  looking  with  idle  interest  at 
the  great  block  of  omnibuses,  when  he  became 
aware  that  a  poorly-dressed  woman  was  stand- 
ing by  him,  gazing  rigidly  into  his  face.  He 
started,  tried  to  fix  her  identity. 

"  Good  God  !  It  is  you  !  "  said  the  woman. 
324 


Drift 


WOO( 


Then  he  remembered.  It  was  Annie  Stevens, 
the  girl  who  had  betrayed  him  so  miserably  to 
the  theatrical  company  years  before. 

"  Won't  you  speak,  to  me  ? "  she  asked, 
somewhat  humbly,  as  he  remained  silent. 

"  You  recall  a  very  bitter  time  to  me,"  said 
Joyce. 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  any  sweeter  to  me  ?  " 
she  asked. 

And  then,  with  a  quick  glance  round  at  an 
approaching  policeman :  — 

"  Walk  on  a  little  way  with  me,  will  you  ? " 

He  hesitated  for  a  moment,  but  a  beseeching 
look  in  her  eyes  touched  him.  Her  presence 
at  that  place,  at  that  hour,  spoke  of  tragedy. 
She  had  never  been  pretty.  Now  she  had 
grown  thin  and  hard-featured. 

"  You  need  n't  fear  I  'm  going  to  ask  you 
for  anything  —  you  of  all  people  in  the  world. 
Of  course,  if  you  don't  want  to  be  seen  with 
me,  don't  come.  You  can't  hurt  me.  I  'm 
past  that.  But  I  'd  like  to  speak  with  you  for 
a  minute  or  two." 

He  had  moved  on  with  her  while  she  was  talk- 
ing.    Then  there  were  a  few  moments'  silence. 

"  Well  ? "  he  enquired.  "  What  do  you 
wish  to  say  ?  " 

325 


Derelicts 

"  God  knows —  anything  —  just  to  ask  you, 
perhaps,  whether  you  're  right  again.  I  have 
thought  of  you  enough." 

He  glanced  at  her  curiously. 

"  Why  have  you  come  to  this  ?  " 

"  Why  did  you  go  to  prison  ?  "  she  retorted. 

"  I  did  wrong  and  was  punished  for  it." 

"  So  did  I.  This  is  my  punishment.  After 
you  had  gone,  I  could  have  torn  my  heart 
out.  I  went  on  the  drink  —  could  n't  get  en- 
gagements—  went  downhill.  I  can't  go  much 
lower,  can  I  ?  If  you  want  revenge,  you  Ve 
got  It. 

She  tossed  her  head  in  her  old,  defiant  way. 
Joyce,  perceiving  her  association  of  himself  in 
her  downfall,  felt  somewhat  moved  with  pity. 

"  God  knows,  revenge  is  the  last  thing  I 
want.  On  the  contrary,  I  am  distressed  to  see 
you  come  to  this.  If  I  could  help  you,  I 
would  do  so.  But  that,  you  know  as  well  as  I, 
is  out  of  my  power." 

"  Yes  ;  the  only  thing  you  could  do,  would 
be  to  marry  me  and  make  an  honest  woman  of 
me,  and  that  is  n't  likely,"  she  said,  cynically. 

"  No,  it  is  n't  likely,"  said  Joyce.  "  I  can 
only  be  deeply  sorry  for  you." 

"  I  wonder  whether  you  could  tell  what  it  is 
326 


Drift 


WOO( 


to  me  to  talk  to  you  even  in  this  way.  Oh, 
God  !  if  you  knew  how  I  longed  to  see  you  !  " 

"  Why  did  you  act  as  you  did  toward  me  ?  " 
he  asked. 

"  I  don't  know.  Don't  ask  me.  Because 
every  woman's  got  a  tiger  in  her  somewhere,  I 
suppose.  I  used  to  think  men  were  the  brutes. 
Now  I  know  it's  women.  We're  all  the 
same.  I  hate  myself.  I  wish  you  would  take 
me  up  a  back  street  and  kill  me.  This  is  a 
hell  of  a  life.  Do  you  remember  the  last  words 
you  said  to  me  ?  *  Some  people  are  better 
dead.*  It 's  the  truest  thing  I  've  ever  heard 
from  man  or  woman." 

"  It 's  easy  enough  to  get  out  of  the  world, 
if  we  want  to,"  said  Joyce.  "  But  perhaps  it  *s 
better  to  fight  it  out.  You  must  make  an 
effort  and  get  out  of  this  life  —  a  proud  girl 
like  you." 

"  I  have  n't  much  pride  left." 

"  I  thought  so  too.  But  it  takes  a  lot  of 
killing.  I  've  come  out  fairly  straight.  Why 
should  n't  you  ?  " 

"  I  '11  come  out  straight,  the  only  way  —  a 
corpse.  But  I  'm  glad  things  are  better  with 
you.  It  relieves  me  to  know  it.  I  thought  I 
had  sent  you  to  the  devil,  and  that's  why  I 

327 


Derelicts 

went  there  myself,  I  suppose.  Well,  I  won't 
keep  you  any  longer.  I  know  you  hate  being 
seen  with  me." 

"  Can't  I  do  anything  for  you  }  "  said  Joyce, 
feeling  in  his  pocket. 

"Yes  —  flay  me  alive  by  offering  me  money. 
You  did  once  —  do  you  remember  ?  " 

She  stopped  abruptly,  took  Joyce's  proffered 
hand,  and  said  in  a  softer  voice  :  — 

"  It 's  good  of  you  to  shake  hands  with  me. 
Men  are  better  than  women.  Thank  God 
I  Ve  seen  you  at  last.     Good-bye." 

"  Good-bye,"  said  Joyce,  kindly. 

They  parted,  and  went  their  different  ways, 
Annie  Stevens  to  the  horror  of  her  life  and 
Joyce  to  the  home  that  held  Yvonne.  The 
parallel  and  the  contrast  smote  him  as  he 
walked  along  the  familiar  street.  Both  him- 
self and  this  girl  that  had  fallen  were  derelicts, 
both  were  expiating  the  past,  both  were  carry- 
ing within  them  a  degraded  self,  that  with  a 
nobler  self  waged  cruel  and  eternal  warfare. 
For  the  injury  she  had  done  him  he  cherished 
no  resentment.  He  felt  a  great  pity  for  her, 
and  judged  her  gently. 

It  was  strange  how  his  rudderless  course 
through  the  last  six  years  had  been  influenced 
328 


Driftwood 

by  other  lonely  and  drifting  craft.  Annie 
Stevens,  who  had  loved  and  nearly  wrecked 
him,  had  been  the  cause  of  his  linking  fortunes 
with  poor  Noakes ;  and  it  was  through  Yvonne 
—  with  whom,  sweetest  of  derelicts,  he  was  now 
voyaging  on  unruffled  waters  —  that  he  had 
first  drifted  towards  Annie  Stevens.  He  was 
pondering  over  this  one  day  during  an  idle 
hour  in  the  shop  with  the  old  bookseller,  when 
a  whimsical  fancy  seized  him. 

"  You  lead  a  very  lonely  life,  Mr.  Runcle," 
he  said  suddenly. 

Yes,"  replied  the  old  man.  "  I  suppose  I 
do.  Beyond  one  sister,  who  has  been  dying  for 
many  months,  I  have  neither  kith  nor  kin  in 
the  world." 


329 


CHAPTER  XIX 


FERMENT 


"Is  all  this  true  ?  "  asked  Yvonne,  mournfully. 

"  Yes,  worse  luck,"  replied  Joyce,  looking 
up  from  his  Sunday  newspaper. 

"  It  is  very  dreadful,"  said  Yvonne. 

She  was  finishing  "  The  Wasters,"  Joyce's 
lately  published  novel.  It  was  not  a  success. 
Its  cultivated  style  received  recognition  every- 
where, but  the  unrelieved  pessimism,  power- 
fully as  it  was  presented,  repelled  most  readers. 
He  was  inclined  to  be  depressed  at  its  recep- 
tion. To  Yvonne,  however,  it  was  a  revela- 
tion. She  closed  the  book  with  a  sigh,  and 
remained  for  some  time  gazing  absently  at  the 
cover.     Then  she  rose  in  her  quick  way. 

"Let  us  go  out  —  into  the  sunshine  —  or  I 
shall  cry.     I  feel  miserable,  Stephen." 

"  On  account  of  that  wretched  book  ? " 

"  That  and  other  things.  Take  me  to  Re- 
gent's Park  —  to  see  the  flowers." 

330 


Ferment 

He  assented  gladly  and  Yvonne  went  to  put 
on  her  things.  Shortly  afterwards  they  were 
side  by  side  on  the  garden  seat  of  a  westward 
bound  omnibus. 

"  I  feel  better,"  said  Yvonne,  breathing  in 
the  summer  air.     "  Don't  you  ?  '* 

"It  is  nice,"  answered  Joyce.  "  I  shall  be 
better  pleased  when  we  are  out  of  these  joyless 
streets.  The  Pentonville  Road  on  a  Sunday 
is  depressing.  I  have  n't  seen  a  smile  on  a 
human  face  since  we  have  been  out.  What 
grey  lives  people  lead." 

"  But  they  can't  all  be  unhappy,"  she  said. 

The  'bus  stopped  for  a  moment.  Three  or 
four  young  roughs,  in  Sunday  clothes,  with 
coarse,  animal  faces  and  discordant  speech 
passed  by  below  on  the  pavement,  and  noisily 
greeted  a  couple  of  quiet-looking  girls,  evi- 
dently acquaintances. 

"  These  seem  cheerful  enough,"  said  Yvonne. 

Joyce  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Did  it  ever  occur  to  you  what  misery  men 
of  that  type  work  in  the  world  ?  By  the  laws 
of  their  class  they  will  all  marry  —  and  marry 
young.  Fancy  a  woman's  life  in  the  hands  of 
any  of  those  fellows." 

The  *bus  moved  on.  Yvonne  was  silent. 
331 


Derelicts 

His  tone  was  that  of  the  book  she  had  just 
been  reading.  She  stole  a  side  glance  at  him. 
His  face  in  repose  was  always  sad  and  brood- 
ing. To-day  she  seemed  to  read  more  clearly 
in  it  the  lines  that  the  breaking  of  the  spirit 
had  caused.  She  identified  him  with  the  char- 
acters in  the  sordid  scenes  he  had  described. 
Presently  she  laid  her  hand  lightly  on  his  arm. 

"  Do  you  think  we  live  a  very  grey  life  — 
now?" 

"  You  have  a  very  hard,  dull,  monotonous 
/ife,"  he  replied. 

"  I  don't,"  said  Yvonne  stoutly.  "  I  am 
very  pleased  and  contented.  I  only  want  one 
thing  to  make  me  perfectly  happy." 

"  So  does  every  one.  The  one  thing  just 
makes  the  difference.  It's  the  one  thing  we 
can't  possibly  get." 

"  It  is  n't  what  you  imagine,"  said  Yvonne. 
'  You  are  thinking  of  money  and  all  that." 

"  No.     It 's  your  voice." 

"  It  is  n't !  "  cried  Yvonne,  with  a  touch  of 
petulant  earnestness.  "  It  is  to  see  you  bright 
and  happy  —  as  you  used  to  be  long,  long  ago. 
You  might  have  known." 

"  It  is  very  dear  of  you,"  he  answered,  after 
a  pause.     "  I  am  selfish  —  and  can't  understand 
332 


Ferment 

/our  sweet  spirit.  Sometimes  I  seem  to  have 
a  stone  heart,  like  the  man  in  the  German 
story." 

"  You  have  a  warm,  generous  heart,  Stephen. 
What  other  man  wovld  have  done  what  you 
have  for  me  ? ' 

"  It  was  pure  selfish  ness  on  my  part,"  he 
replied.  "  The  loneliness  was  too  appalling. 
And  then,  further,  I  am  never  quite  sure  I 
have  acted  rightly  by  you." 

"  I  am,"  she  said.  "  And  I  'm  the  best  judge, 
■'  think." 

But  Joyce  was  correct  in  his  bitter  self-analy- 
sis. Now  and  then  his  sensitive  fibres  vi- 
brated. But  generally  the  weight  of  the  pasl 
years  was  on  his  heart,  and  repressed  continu- 
ous emotion.  To  live  on  these  intimate  terms 
with  Yvonne  and  never  consider  the  possibility 
of  loving  her,  after  the  way  of  men,  was  ab- 
surd. The  chivalrous  instincts  awakened  by 
her  implicit  trust  in  him,  and  the  double  bar- 
rier which  forbade  a  love  that  could  result  ir\ 
marriage,  made  him  dismiss  such  considera- 
tions. But  often,  in  gloomy  introspective 
moods,  his  self-contempt  denied  these  instincts 
as  arrogant  pretensions,  and  attributed  the  ab- 
sence of  warmer  feelings  towards  Yvonne  to 
333 


Derelicts 

the  petrifaction  of  all  emotional  chords.  Ol 
late,  however,  he  had  ceased  to  speculate,  tak- 
ing his  insensibility  for  granted. 

When  they  arrived  at  the  Regent's  Park, 
they  proceeded  for  some  distance  northwards 
up  the  great  averue.  It  was  crowded.  Joyce 
looked  about  him,  with  a  fidgeted  air,  at  the 
stream  of  passers-by. 

"  Let  us  get  away  from  the  people  and  sit 
under  a  tree,"  he  said  at  length. 

Yvonne  slipped  her  hand  impulsively  through 
his  arm. 

"  I  wish  yoii  knew  how  proud  I  am  of  you," 
she  said. 

"  It 's  for  your  sake,  too,  Yvonne,  dear,"  he 
replied  in  a  touched  voice. 

She  made  one  of  her  magnificent  little  ges- 
tures with  the  hand  holding  her  sunshade. 

"  I  have  never  done  anything  to  be  ashamed 
of  yet,"  she  said  proudly,  and  glanced  from 
Joyce  to  a  pompous  elderly  couple  with  an  air 
of  defiance.  Then  she  brought  him  abruptly 
to  a  stand  before  a  flower-bed  bright  in  its 
summer  glory. 

"  Oh,  how  lovely  !     Look  ! " 

She  broke  into  little  joyous  exclamations. 
Colour  affected  her  like  music.  A  glow  came 
3i4 


Ferment 

into  her  cheek.  She  became  again  the  thing 
of  warmth  and  sunshine  that  had  gladdened 
him  four  years  before,  when  his  degradation 
lay  heavy  on  him. 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  world,  Stephen." 

"  You  are  right,  dear.  It  is.  And  you  are 
the  most  beautiful  thing  in  it." 

The  glow  deepened  on  her  face,  and  a  bright 
moisture  appeared  in  her  eyes  as  she  glanced 
upwards. 

"  That 's  very,  very  foolish.  But  you  said 
it  as  if  you  meant  it." 

"  I  did  indeed,  Yvonne." 

"  Let  us  go  and  find  a  place  under  the 
trees,"  she  said  softly. 

They  left  the  main  avenue  and  wandered  on 
over  the  green  turf,  seeking  for  a  long  time  a 
piece  of  shade  untenanted  by  sprawling  men,  or 
lovers,  or  heterogeneous  families.  At  last  they 
found  a  lonely  tree  and  sat  down  beneath  it. 

"  Are  you  happier  here  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  Much.  It  is  so  peaceful.  When  I  was  In 
South  Africa  I  yearned  for  civilisation  and  men 
and  women.  Now  I  am  in  London,  I  am 
happiest  away  from  them.  Men  are  funny 
animals,  Yvonne." 

Yvonne  looked  down  at  the  ground  and 
335 


Derelicts 

nervously  plucked  at  the  grass.  Then  she 
raised  her  eyes  quickly. 

"When  are  you  going  to  be  quite  happy, 
Stephen  ? " 

"  I  am  happy  enough  now." 

"  But  when  you  get  home,  the  black  mood 
may  come  over  you  again.  Can't  you  forget  all 
the  horrid  past  —  the  prison  —  and  all  that  ?  " 

It  was  the  first  time  she  had  ever  alluded  to 
it  directly ;  her  voice  quavered  on  the  word. 

"  No,  I  can  never  forget  it,"  he  replied  in  a 
low  tone.  "  If  I  live  to  be  a  hundred,  I  shall 
remember  it  on  my  deathbed." 

"You  seem  to  feel  it — just  like  a  woman 
does — who  has  been  on  the  streets  —  as  if 
nothing  could  wipe  it  away." 

He  was  startled.  Signs  had  not  been  want- 
ing of  a  change  coming  over  Yvonne,  but  he 
had  never  heard  a  saying  on  her  lips  of  such 
perceptive  earnestness.  It  was  strange,  too, 
that  she  had  hit  upon  a  parallel  that  had  been 
in  his  mind  since  the  night  he  had  met  Annie 
Stevens. 

"  Nothing  can  wipe  it  away,  Yvonne.  It  is 
like  a  woman's  sense  of  degradation  — just  as 
you  say." 

"  X  would  give  anything  —  my  voice  over 
336 


Ferment 

again,  if  I  had  it  —  to  help  you.  You  have 
never  told  me  about  it  —  the  dreadful  part  of 
it — I  want  to  know  —  every  bit — tell  mc 
now,  will  you  ?  " 

"  You  would  loathe  me,  as  much  as  I  loathe 
myself,  if  I  told  you." 

He  was  lying  on  one  elbow,  by  her  side. 
She  ventured  a  gossamer  touch  upon  his  fore- 
head. 

"You  don't  know  much  about  a  woman, 
although  you  do  write  books,"  she  said. 

The  touch  and  the  tone  awoke  a  great  need 
of  expansion.  He  struggled  for  a  few  moments, 
and  at  last  gave  way. 

"  Yes,  I  '11  tell  you  —  from  the  very  begin- 
ning." And  there  in  the  quasi-solitude  of  their 
tree  —  one  of  innumerable  camping-spots  for  re- 
cumbent figures,  that  met  the  eye  on  all  sides  — 
he  gave,  for  the  first  time,  definite  utterance  to 
the  horrors  that  had  haunted  him  for  six  years. 
He  told  her  the  old  story  of  the  earthenware 
pot  careering  down  the  stream  in  company 
with  the  brazen  vessels  ;  of  his  debts,  staring 
ruin,  and  his  yielding  to  the  great  temptation  ; 
of  his  trial,  his  sentence  rendered  heavier  by 
the  fact  that  his  malversations  had  brought 
misery  into  other  lives.  He  described  to  her 
"  337 


Derelicts 

In  lurid  detail  just  what  the  prison-life  was, 
what  it  meant,  how  its  manifold  degradation 
ate  into  a  man's  flesh,  became  infused  in  his 
blood  and  ran  for  ever  through  his  veins.  He 
spared  her  nothing  of  which  decency  permitted 
the  telling.  Now  and  then  Yvonne  shivered 
a  little  and  drew  in  a  quick  breath;  but  her 
great  eyes  never  left  his  face  —  save  once  when 
he  showed  her  his  hands  still  scarred  by  the 
toil  from  which  delicate  fingers  never  recover. 

He  had  spoken  jerkily,  in  hard,  dry  tones ; 
so  he  ended  abruptly.  There  was  silence. 
Yvonne's  little  gloved  hand  crept  to  his  and 
pressed  it.  Then,  with  a  common  impulse, 
they  rose  to  their  feet. 

"  Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  she  said,  com- 
ing near  to  him  and  taking  his  arm.  "  I 
did  not  know  how  how  terrible  it  has  been  — 
and  I  never  realised  what  a  brave  man  you 
are.'* 

"I  —  brave,  Yvonne ?  "  he  cried  with  a 
bitter  laugh. 

"Yes  —  to  have  gone  through  that  and  to 
be  the  loyal,  tender,  true-hearted  gentleman 
that  you  are." 

He  looked  down  at  her  and  saw  her  soft 
eyes    filled  with  tears  and  her  lips  quivering 

338 


Ferment 

"You  still  feel  the  same  to  me,  Yvonne, 
now  that  you  know  it  all  ?  "  he  asked,  bending 
forward  on  his  stick. 

"  More,"  she  answered.  "  Oh,  —  much 
more." 

They  walked  back  to  the  Park  gates  in  a 
happy  silence,  drawn  very  near  to  one  another, 
since  both  hearts  were  very  full.  So  close 
together  did  they  walk,  so  softened  was  the 
man's  face,  and  so  sweetly  proud  the  woman's, 
that  they  might  have  been  taken  for  lovers. 
But  if  love  was  hovering  over  them,  he  touched 
neither  with  an  awakening  feather.  And  so 
they  passed  on  their  way  untroubled. 

That  day  was,  in  a  certain  sense,  a  landmark 
in  their  lives.  Yvonne  never  referred  to  the 
prison  again,  but  she  learned  to  know  when  its 
shadow  was  over  him  and  at  such  times  her 
nature  melted  in  tenderness  towards  him. 

The  days  wore  on.  The  second  novel,  over 
whose  pages  Yvonne  had  cast  gleams  of  sun- 
shine, was  finished  and  disposed  of  to  the  same 
publishers.  His  source  of  income  from  occa- 
sional journalism  showed  signs  of  becoming 
steadier.  But  all  the  same,  the  struggle  with 
poverty  continued  hard.  Yvonne  fell  ill  again 
md  lost  her  music-lessons.  It  took  some  time 
229 


Derelicts 

after  her  recovery  to  pay  off  the  debts  incurred 
for  doctor,  medicine,  and  invalid  necessaries. 
To  obtain  funds  to  take  her  to  the  seaside  for 
a  few  days,  Joyce  was  forced  to  ask  his  pub- 
lishers for  an  advance.  However,  the  trip 
restored  Yvonne  to  health  again,  and  their 
uneventful  life  pursued  its  usual  course. 

One  day  a  strange  phenomenon  occurred. 
A  visitor  was  announced.  It  was  the  sister 
who  had  tended  Yvonne  in  the  hospital.  Once 
before,  while  Yvonne  was  living  in  the  Pimlico 
lodgings,  she  had  paid  a  flying  visit.  On  this 
occasion  she  stayed  for  a  couple  of  hours  with 
Yvonne,  who,  happy  as  she  was  with  Joyce,  felt 
a  wonderful  relief  in  talking  again  familiarly 
with  one  of  her  own  sex.  She  poured  forth 
the  little  history  of  all  that  had  befallen  her 
since  she  had  left  the  hospital. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  the  sister  said 
at  last,  "  that  you  keep  house  together  on  this 
romantically  Platonic  basis  ?  " 

Yvonne  regarded  her,  wide-eyed. 

"  Of  course.     Why  should  n't  we  ?  " 

The  sister  was  a  woman  of  the  world. 
When  she  had  entered  the  room  and  perceived 
the  unmistakable  signs  of  a  man's  general  pres- 
ence, she  had  drawn  her  own  conclusions 
340 


Ferment 

That  these  were  erroneous,  Yvonne's  innocent 
candour  most  clearly  proved.  Yet  she  was 
astonished,  perhaps  a  little  disappointed.  The 
offending  Eve  lingers  in  many  women,  even 
after  much  self-whipping  —  for  the  greater 
comfort  of  their  lives. 

"  But  how  can  a  man  look  at  you  and  not 
fall  in  love  with  you  ? "  she  asked  downright. 

Yvonne  laughed,  and  ran  to  the  kettle  that 
was  boiling  over  on  the  gas-stove  —  she  was 
making  tea  for  her  visitor. 

"  Oh,  you  can't  think  of  the  number  of 
people  who  have  said  those  same  words  to 
me !  Why,  that  is  why  I  am  so  happy  with 
Stephen  —  he  has  never  dreamed  of  mak- 
ing love  to  me;  never  once  —  really.  And, 
do  you  know,  he 's  the  only  man  I  've  ever 
had  much  to  do  with  who  has  n't." 

"  He  looks  like  a  man  who  has  seen  a  great 
deal  of  trouble,"  said  the  sister. 

Yvonne's  laugh  faded,  and  a  great  serious- 
ness came  into  her  eyes. 

"  Awful  trouble,"  she  said  in  a  very  low  and 
earnest  voice. 

"  Perhaps  that  makes  him  different  from 
other  men,"  said  the  sister,  taking  her  hand 
and  smoothing  it. 

341 


Derelicts 

**  Perhaps,"  replied  Yvonne. 

It  was  a  new  light,  quick  and  clear,  flashed 
upon  their  relations.  Her  woman's  instinct 
clamoured  for  confirmation. 

"  Do  you  think  that  if  he  had  not  this 
great  trouble,  he  would  necessarily  have  fallen 
in  love  with  me,  like  the  others  ^  " 

"  It  stands  to  reason,"  replied  the  elder 
woman  gently  —  "if  he's  a  man  at  all.  And 
he  is  a  man  —  one,  too,  that  many  women 
could  love  and  be  proud  of." 

"  Oh,  thank  you  for  saying  that ! "  cried 
Yvonne,  impulsively.     "  I  am  proud  of  him." 

An  imperceptible  smile  played  over  the 
sister's  plain,  pleasant  face.  Her  calling  had 
brought  her  a  certain  knowledge  of  human 
nature,  and  taught  her  to  judge  by  suppres- 
sions. This  side-light  on  the  inner  lives  of 
the  two  beings  whose  fortunes  had  long  ago 
interested  her,  quickened  her  sympathies  for 
them.  She  determined  to  keep  them  in  view 
for  the  future  —  and  with  this  intention  she 
offered  Yvonne  opportunities  for  continuing 
the  friendship. 

"  So  you  '11  come  and  see  me  often,"  she  said 
at  last.     "  I  have  n't  very  many  friends.'* 

"And  I  haven't  any  at  all,"  said  Yvonne, 
342 


Ferment 

smiling.  "  And  oh !  you  don't  know  what 
a  comfort  it  would  be  to  have  a  woman  to  go 
to  now  and  then  !  " 

The  visit  left  Yvonne  thoughtful  and  happy. 
A  new  feeling  towards  Joyce  budded  in  her 
heart  and  the  process  was  accompanied  by  tiny 
shocks  of  tender  resentment.  So  conscious 
was  she  of  this,  that  that  evening  whilst  Joyce 
was  working  in  the  armchair  opposite  to  her, 
she  suddenly  brokj  into  a  little  musical  laugh. 
He  looked  up  and  caught  the  reflection  of 
her  smile. 

"  What  is  amusing  you,  Yvonne  ?  " 

She  still  smiled,  but  a  deep  red  flush  showed 
beneath  her  dark  skin. 

"  My  thoughts,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  that 
admitted  of  no  further  question. 

Yet  she  would  have  liked  to  tell  him.  It 
was  so  humorous  that  she  should  feel  angry 
because  he  did  not  fall  in  love  with  her. 

Sometimes  light  moods  are  delicate  indexes 
to  far-away,  unknown  commotions.  After- 
wards, in  the  serious  moments,  when  the  bird- 
"ike  inconsequence  fled  away  from  her  and 
ihe  realised  herself  as  a  grown  woman  to 
whom  had  come  the  knowledge  of  life,  this 
that  she  had  laughed  and  blushed  over  ap- 
34i 


Derelicts 

peared  sad  and  painful.  It  kept  her  awake 
sometimes  at  nights.  Once  she  got  out  of 
bed,  lit  her  candle,  and  looked  closely  at  her 
face  in  the  glass.  But  she  returned  comforted. 
She  was  not  getting  old  and  unattractive. 

Yet  a  vague  ferment  in  her  nature  began  to 
puzzle  her  sorely.  Her  mind,  that  was  once 
as  simple  as  a  child's  and  as  clear  as  spring 
water,  seemed  now  tangled  with  many  com- 
plexities ;  she  saw  into  it,  as  in  a  glass,  darkly. 
Life,  for  the  first  time  appeared  to  her  incom- 
plete. She  was  weighed  down  with  a  sense 
of  failure.  The  very  facts  that  had  caused 
the  happy  possibility  of  her  comradeship  with 
Joyce  smote  her  as  proofs  of  the  inadequacy 
of  her  own  womanhood.  The  essential  fierce 
vanity  of  sex  was  touched. 

Once  only  before  had  she  used  her  sex  as 
a  weapon  —  on  that  miserable  day  at  Ostend, 
to  keep  Everard  by  her  side.  Then  she  had 
felt  the  fire  of  shame.  Now  she  was  tempted 
to  use  it  again,  and  the  shame  burned  deeper. 

And  Joyce,  familiarised  with  the  daily  sweet- 
ness of  her  companionship,  did  not  notice  the 
gradually  stealing  increase  of  tenderness  in  her 
ways. 


344 


CHAPTER  XX 

UPHEAVAL 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon.  The  old  man 
had  gone  away  to  Exeter,  to  bury  his  sister, 
his  only  surviving  relative.  Joyce  was  alone  in 
the  shop  busily  sorting  a  job  lot  of  books  that 
had  come  in  during  the  morning.  They  were 
stacked  in  great  piles  at  the  further  end,  form- 
ing a  barrier  between  himself  and  the  doorway, 
where  the  falling  light  was  creeping  in  upon 
the  neatly-arranged  shelves.  Above  him  flared 
a  gas-jet.  It  was  warm  and  dusty  work,  and 
Joyce  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  collar  and 
rolled  up  the  sleeves  of  his  flannel  shirt.  Some 
of  the  worthless  books  he  threw  on  two  piles 
on  the  floor,  to  be  placed  in  the  twopenny 
and  fourpenny  boxes  outside.  Others,  he 
priced  and  catalogued.  Others,  again,  in  good 
bindings,  or  otherwise  obviously  of  value, 
he  dusted  with  a  feather  brush  and  put  aside 
for  the  old  man's  inspection.  Now  and  again 
345 


Derelicts 

space  failed  for  the  assorted  lots,  and  he  wouk 
carry  great  strings  of  volumes  supported  under 
his  chin  to  convenient  stacking-spaces  on  the 
shelves.  Then  he  would  proceed  with  his 
sorting,  cataloguing,  and  cleinsing. 

Presently  the  back-parlour  door  opened  and 
Yvonne  appeared  Joyce  paused,  with  a  grimy 
volume  in  his  hand,  in  the  midst  of  a  cloud  of 
dust  that  rose  like  incense,  and  his  heart  gave 
a  little  throb  of  gladness.  She  looked  so  fresh 
and  sweet  as  she  stood  there,  daintily  aproned, 
in  the  darkness  of  the  doorway,  with  the  light 
from  the  gas-jet  falling  upon  her  face. 

"  Tea 's  ready,"  she  remarked. 

"  Let  me  finish  this  lot,"  he  said,  pointing  to 
a  pile,  "  and  then  I  '11  come." 

She  nodded,  advanced  a  step  and  took  up  a 
great  in-folio  black-letter. 

"  What  silly  rubbish,"  she  said,  with  a  su- 
perior little  grimace,  as  she  turned  over  the 
pages.     "  Fancy  any  one  wanting  to  buy  this." 

"  You  had  better  put  it  down,  if  you  don't 
want  to  cover  yourself  with  dirt,"  said  Joyce. 

She  dropped  the  book,  looked  at  her  soiled 
nands  with  a  comic  air  of  disgust. 

"  Horrid  things  1  Why  did  n't  you  tell 
me?" 

346 


upheaval 


Joyce  laughed  for  answer.  It  was  so  like 
Yvonne.  After  she  had  withdrawn,  with  a 
further  reminder  about  the  tea,  he  went  on 
smiling  to  himself. 

It  was  very  sweet,  this  brother  and  sister  life 
of  theirs,  in  spite  of  its  isolation.  There  seemed 
no  reason  why  it  should  not  continue  for  ever. 
Indeed,  he  scarcely  thought  of  change.  Now 
that  his  small  earnings  seemed  practically  as- 
sured and  Yvonne  could  contribute  from  her 
singing  lessons  something  to  the  household  ex- 
penses, the  wolf  was  kept  pretty  far  from  the 
door. 

He  was  in  one  of  his  lighter  moods,  when 
Yvonne's  sunshine  "  scattered  the  ghosts  of  the 
past,"  and  illuminated  the  dark  places  in  his 
heart.  He  hummed  a  song,  forgetful  of  the  gaol 
and  his  pariahdom,  and  thought  of  Yvonne's 
face  awaiting  him  at  the  tea-table,  as  soon  as  he 
had  completed  his  task. 

A  hesitating  step  was  heard  in  the  shop. 
He  thought  it  was  the  boy  returning  from  an 
errand. 

"  Another  time  you  are  sent  out  round  the 
corner,  don't  take  a  quarter  of  an  hour,"  he 
cried,  without  turning  round. 

An  irritated  tap  of  the  foot  made  him  realise 
347 


Derelicts 

that  it  was  a  customer.  He  sprang  forward 
with  apologies,  and,  as  it  had  grown  dusk,  he 
seized  a  taper  and  quickly  lighted  the  gas  in 
the  shop. 

Then  he  looked  at  the  man  and  started  back 
in  amazement ;  and  the  man  looked  at  him ; 
and  for  a  few  seconds  they  remained  staring  at 
one  another.  The  visitor  wore  apron  and 
gaiters  and  a  bishop's  hat,  and  his  dignified 
presence  was  that  of  Everard  Chisely.  He 
surveyed  Joyce's  grimy  and  workaday  figure 
with  a  curl  of  disgust  on  his  lip.  The  glance 
stung  Joyce  like  a  taunt.  He  flushed,  drew 
himself  up  defiantly. 

"  You  are  the  last  person  I  expected  to  meet 
here,"  said  the  Bishop,  haughtily. 

"  Your  lordship  is  the  last  person  I  desired 
to  see,"  retorted  Joyce. 

"Doubtless,"  replied  the  Bishop.  "And 
now  w€  have  met,  I  have  only  one  thing  to  say 
to  you.  I  have  traced  Madame  Latour  to  this 
house.     Where  is  she  ?  " 

"  She  is  here  —  upstairs." 

"In  this  — "  began  the  Bishop,  looking 
round  and  seeking  for  a  word  expressive  of 
distaste. 

"  —  hovel  ?  "  suggested  Joyce.     "  Yes." 
348  . 


Upheaval 

"  Under  your  protection  ?  " 

"  Under  my  protection." 

Then  Joyce  noticed  that  his  lips  twitched,  and 
that  the  perspiration  beaded  on  his  forehead, 
and  that  an  agony  of  questioning  was  in  his  eyes. 

"Have  you  been  villain  enough  —  ^"  he 
began   in   a  hoarse,  trembling  voice. 

But  Joyce  checked  him  with  a  sudden  flash 
and  an  angry  gesture. 

"  Stop !  She  is  as  pure  as  the  stars.  Let 
there  be  no  doubt  about  that.  I  tell  you  for 
her  sake,  not  for  yours." 

The  Bishop  drew  a  long  breath  and  wiped 
his  forehead.  Joyce  took  his  silence  for 
incredulity. 

"  If  I  were  a  villain,"  he  continued,  "  do  you 
think  it  would  matter  a  brass  button  to  me 
whether  you  knew  it  ?  I  should  say  *  yes,'  and 
you  would  walk  away  and  I  should  never  see 
you  again." 

He  thrust  his  hands  in  his  pockets  and  faced 
his  cousin.  All  the  pariah's  bitter  hatred  arose 
within  him  against  the  man  who  stood  there, 
the  representative  of  the  caste  that  had  dis- 
owned and  reviled  him ;  conscious,  too,  as  he 
was,  of  standing  for  the  moment  on  a  higher 
plane. 

349 


Derelicts 

"  I  believe  you.  Oh  —  indeed  —  I  believe 
you,"  replied  Everard,  hurriedly.  "  But  why  is 
she  here  .?     Why  has  she  sunk  as  low  as  this  ?  " 

"  Your  lordship  should  be  the  last  to  ask 
such  a  question." 

"  I  don't  understand  you." 

"  I  should  have  thought  it  was  obvious,"  said 
Joyce,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders. 

The  sarcasm  sounded  in  the  Bishop's  ears 
like  cynicism. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  have  inveigled 
Madame  Latour  into  supporting  you  ? "  he 
asked  in    a  tone   of  disgust. 

Joyce  laughed  mirthlessly. 

"  Listen,"  he  said.  "  Let  us  come  to  some 
understanding.  I  am  a  member  of  the  criminal 
classes,  and  you  are  a  bishop  of  the  English 
church.  Perhaps  the  God  you-  believe  in  may 
condescend  to  judge  between  us.  The  woman 
who  was  once  your  wife  appealed  to  you  when 
she  was  sick  and  penniless,  and  you  disregarded 
her  appeal.  I,  a  poverty-stricken  outcast  sup- 
ported her,  gave  her  a  home,  and  reverenced 
her  as  a  sacred  trust.  *  Whether  of  them  twain 
did  the  will  of  his  father  ? '  " 

Everard  stared  at  him  in  wide-eyed  agitation. 
A  customer  entered  with  a  book  he  had  selected 
350 


Upheaval 


from  the  stall  outside.  Joyce  went  forward,  re- 
ceived the  money  and  returned  to  his  former 
position  by  the  Bishop. 

"  I  received  no  appeal  from  her,"  said  the 
latter. 

"  You  did,  through  me.  She  was  too  ill  to 
write." 

"When  was  this?" 

"  Last  November,  a  year  ago." 

Everard  reflected  for  a  moment  and  then  a 
sudden  memory  flashed  upon  him,  and  an 
expression  of  deep  pain  came  over  his  face. 

"  God  forgive  me  !  I  threw  your  letter  into 
the  fire  unopened." 

"  Might  I  ask  your  reason  ? "  asked  Joyce, 
feeling  a  grim  joy  in  his  cousin's  humiliation. 

"  I  had  been  warned  that  you  had  gone  to 
Fulminster  on  a  begging  errand  —  " 

"  Did  the  Rector  have  the  iniquity  to  write 
you  that  ?  "  burst  in  Joyce  fiercely. 

"  It  was  not  the  Rector." 

"  Who,  then  ?  I  saw  no  one  but  him.  I 
was  simply  seeking  Madame  Latour." 

"  I  name    no    names,"    replied   the  Bishop, 

stiffly.     "  I  am  merely  explaining.    The  letter, 

in  fact,  came  by  the  same  mail  as  yours.     Little 

suspecting  that  you  could  address  me  on  any 

3SI 


Derelicts 

subject  uncotinected  with  yourself,  and  keeping 
to  my  resolution  to  hold  no  further  communica- 
tion with  you,  I  destroyed,  as  I  say,  your 
letter  unopened.  Believe  me,  the  apology  I 
tender  to  you  —  " 

"  Is  neither  here  nor  there,"  said  Joyce, 
coldly.  "  I  am  past  feeling  such  slights.  I 
suppose  your  correspondent  was  that  she-devil 
Emmeline  Winstanley.     I  congratulate  you." 

The  Bishop  made  no  reply,  but  paced  back- 
wards and  forwards  two  or  three  times  with 
bent  head,  along  the  book-lined  shelves.  Then 
he  stopped  and  said  abruptly  :  — 

"  Tell  me  the  facts  about  Yvonne." 

The  conciliatory  mention  of  her  by  her 
Christian  name  thawed  Joyce  for  the  moment. 
He  rapidly  sketched  events,  while  Everard 
listened,  looking  at  him  rigidly  from  under  bent 
brows. 

"  I  would  have  given  the  last  drop  of  my 
blood  rather  than  she  should  have  suffered 
so." 

'*'  So  would  I,"  replied  Joyce. 

"  Would  to  God  I  had  known  of  it !  " 

"  It  was  your  own  doing." 

"You  are  right.     My   uncharitableness  to- 
i*vards  you  has  brought  its  punishment." 
3S2 


Upheaval 

"  I  cannot  say  I  am  sorry,"  said  Joyce, 
grimly. 

There  was  a  short  silence,  compelled  by  the 
struggling  emotions  in  each  man's  heart.  In 
Joyce's  there  was  war,  a  sense  of  victory,  of 
the  sweetness  of  revenge.  He  felt,  too,  that 
now  Yvonne  would  indubitatively  reject  the 
Bishop's  offer  of  help.  He  had  won  the  right 
to  support  her. 

Suddenly  her  voice  was  heard  from  the 
back-parlour  door. 

"  Do  come.     The  tea  is  getting  quite  cold." 

Both  men  started.  A  quick  flash  came  into 
Everard's  eyes  and  he  made  a  hasty  step  for- 
ward.    But  Joyce  checked  him  with  a  gesture. 

"  I  had  better  prepare  her  for  the  surprise  of 
seeing  you." 

The  Bishop  nodded  assent.  Joyce  ran  to  the 
street  door  to  see  that  the  boy  had  returned  to 
his  post,  and,  satisfied,  left  the  Bishop  and  went  to 
join  Yvonne  in  their  little  sitting-room  upstairs. 

She  had  just  entered,  was  lifting  a  plate  of 
hot  toast  from  the  fender.  She  held  it  out 
threateningly  with  both  hands. 

"  If  it 's  all  dried  up  it  is  not  my  fault,"  she 
scolded.     "  And  oh  !  you  know  I  don't  allow 
you  to  sit  down  in  your  shirt-sleeves  J '' 
23  353 


Derelicts 

He  made  no  reply,  but  took  the  plate 
mechanically  from  her  and  placed  it  on  the 
table. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Stephen  ?  "  she  asked 
suddenly,  scanning  his  face. 

"  Some  one  has  called  to  see  you,  Yvonne.'* 

"  Me  ? " 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  puzzled  moment. 
Then  something  in  his  face  told  her.  She 
caught  him  by  his  shirt-sleeve. 

"  It  can't  be  Everard  ?  "  she  cried,  agitated. 

"  Yes.     It  is  Everard." 

She  grew  deadly  pale  and  her  breath  came 
fast. 

"  How  has  he  managed  to  find  me  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.     Possibly  he  will  explain." 

Yvonne  sat  down  by  the  table  and  put  her 
Jiand  to  her  heart. 

"  It  is  so  sudden,"  she  said  deprecatingly. 

"  Perhaps  you  would  rather  put  off  seeing 
him,"  suggested  Joyce. 

"  Oh  no,  no.  I  will  see  him  now  —  if  you 
don't  mind,  Stephen,  dear.  I  am  quite  strong 
again.  Tell  him  to  come.  And  don't  be  un- 
happy about  me." 

She  smiled  up  at  him,  and   held   out   her 
hand.     He  took  it  in  his  and  kissed  it. 
354     . 


upheaval 

"  My  own  brave,  dear  Yvonne,"  he  said 
impulsively.  A  flush  and  a  grateful  glance 
rewarded  him. 

He  found  the  Bishop  scanning  the  book 
backs. 

"Will  you  let  me  show  you  up  to  the  sit- 
ting-room ?  "  said  Joyce. 

The  Bishop  bowed  and  followed.  At  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  he  paused. 

"  I  think  it  right  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  "  that 
I  have  received  authentic  news  of  the  death  of 
Madame  Latour's  first  husband.  The  object 
of  my  sudden  visit  to  England  is  to  take  her 
back  with  me  as  my  wife." 

The  unexpectedness  of  the  announcement 
smote  Joyce  like  a  blast  of  icy  air.  The  lofti- 
ness of  the  Bishop's  assurance  dwarfed  him  to 
insignificance.  As  at  previous  crises  of  his  life, 
the  sudden  check  cowed  the  spirit  yet  under 
the  prison  yoke.  His  defiance  vanished.  He 
turned  with  one  foot  on  the  stair  and  one  hand 
on  the  baluster  and  stared  stupidly  at  the 
Bishop.  The  latter  motioned  to  him  to  pro- 
ceed. He  obeyed  mechanically,  mounted, 
turned  the  handle  of  the  sitting-room  door  in 
silence,  and  descended  again  to  the  shop. 

No  sooner  was  he  alone  than  a  swift  con- 
2Bi 


Derelicts 

sciousness  of  his  moral  rout  made  him  hot  with 
shame  and  anger.  His  heart  rose  in  fierce 
revolt.  Yvonne  was  free.  Free  to  marry 
whom  she  liked.  What  right  over  her  had 
this  man  who  had  cast  her  off,  spent  two  whole 
years  at  the  other  end  of  the  world  without 
once  troubling  to  enquire  after  her  welfare  ? 
What  right  had  the  man  to  come  and  rob  him 
of  the  one  blessing  that  life  held  for  him  ? 

The  prospect  of  life  alone,  without  Yvonne, 
shimmered  before  him  like  a  bleak  landscape 
revealed  by  sheet-lightning.  A  panic  shook 
him.  A  second  flash  revealed  him  to  himself 
This  utter  dependence  upon  Yvonne,  this  in- 
tense need  of  her  that  had  gone  on  strengthen- 
ing, week  by  week,  and  day  by  day,  was  love. 
Use,  self-concentration,  the  mere  unconcealed 
affection  of  daily  life  had  kept  it  dormant  as  it 
grew.  Now  it  awakened  under  the  sudden  ter- 
ror of  losing  her.  A  thrill  ran  through  his 
body.  He  loved  her.  She  was  free.  This 
other  set  aside,  he  could  marry  her.  He  paced 
among  the  piles  of  books  in  strange  excitement 

The  boy,  who  had  been  rapping  his  heels 

against  his  box-seat  by  the  door,  strolled  in  to 

see  what  was  doing.     Joyce  abruptly  ordered 

him   to   put  up    the  shutters    and  go    hon?«. 

3S6  , 


Upheaval 

Meanwhile  he  made  pretence  to  continue  his 
work  of  cataloguing.  But  his  brain  was  in 
a  whirl.  His  eyes  fell  upon  the  marks  of 
Yvonne's  hands  and  arms  on  the  dust  of  the 
folio  she  had  been  handling.  The  mute  testi- 
mony of  their  intimacy  eloquently  moved  him. 
She  was  part  and  parcel  of  his  life.  He  would 
not  give  her  up  without  fierce  fighting. 

Then,  in  the  midst  of  the  glow  came  the 
fresh  memory  of  his  collapse.  He  sat  down 
by  the  little  deal  table,  where  he  was  wont  to 
write,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  hands,  and 
shivered.  His  manhood  had  gone.  Nothing 
could  ever  restore  it.  Its  semblance  was 
liable  to  be  shattered  at  any  moment  by  an 
honest  man's  self-assertion.  It  had  perished 
during  those  awful  years ;  not  to  be  revived, 
even  by  the  pure  passion  of  love  that  was 
throbbing  in  his  veins. 

Too  restless  to  sit  long,  he  rose  presently 
and  walked  about  the  shop,  among  the  books. 
The  close,  dusty  air  suffocated  him.  He 
longed  to  go  out,  walk  the  streets,  and  shake 
oflF  the  burden  that  was  round  his  neck.  But 
the  feeling  that  he  ought,  for  Yvonne's  sake, 
to  remain  until  the  Bishop's  departure  kept 
him  an  irritable  prisoner.     The  minutes  passed 

357 


Derelicts 

slowly.  Outside  was  the  ceaseless  hum  and 
hurry  of  the  street :  within,  the  flare  of  the  gas- 
jets  and  the  sound  of  his  own  purposeless  tread. 
And  so  for  two  hours  he  waited,  running  the 
gamut  of  his  emotions  with  maddening  itera- 
tion. The  terror  of  losing  Yvonne  brought  at 
times  the  perspiration  to  his  forehead.  With 
feverish  intensity  he  argued  out  his  claim  upon 
her.  She  could  not  throw  him  over  to  go 
and  live  with  that  proud,  unsympathetic  man 
who  must  for  ever  be  to  her  a  stranger.  Then 
his  jealous  wrath  burst  forth  again,  and  again 
came  the  old  hated  shiver  of  degradation. 
How  dare  he  match  himself  against  one  who, 
with  all  his  faults,  had  yet  lived  through  his 
life  a  stainlesir  gentleman  ? 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A    DEMAND    IN    MARRIAGE 

*'  Yes,  he  is  dead,"  said  the  Bishop,  gravely. 
**  You  are  a  free  woman.     I  have  come  from  - 
the  other  end  of  the  world  to  tell  you  so." 

Yvonne,  sitting  opposite  him,  looked  into 
the  red  coals  of  the  fire,  and  clasped  her  hands 
nervously.  His  presence  dazed  her.  She  had 
not  yet  recovered  from  the  shock  of  his  sudden 
embrace.  The  pressure  of  his  arms  was  yet 
about  her  shoulders.  The  change  wrought  in 
her  life  by  the  loss  of  her  voice  was  almost  like 
a  change  of  identity.  It  was  with  an  effort  that 
she  realised  the  former  closeness  of  their  rela- 
tions. He  seemed  unfamiliar,  out  of  place,  to 
have  dropped  down  from  another  sphere.  The 
oddity  of  his  attire  struck  a  note  of  the  unusual. 
The  dignity  of  his  ^itle  invested  him  with  re- 
moteness. His  face  too,  did  not  correspond 
with  her  remembered  impression.  It  was  thin 
ner,  more  deeply  lined.  His  hair  had  grown 
scantier  and  greyer. 

359 


Derelicts 

She  had  listened,  almost  in  a  dream,  to  the 
story  of  his  coming.  How,  to  his  bitter  regret, 
he  had  destroyed  Joyce's  letter.  How,  later, 
growing  anxious  about  her,  he  had  written  for 
news  of  her  welfare.  How  his  letter  had  been 
returned  to  him-through  the  post-office.  How, 
meanwhile,  the  detective  whom  he  had  employed 
for  the  purpose  in  Paris,  had  s  3nt  him  proofs  of 
Bazouge's  death.  How  he  hid  been  unable  to 
rest  until  he  had  found  her,  ai  d,  impatient  of  the 
long  weary  posts,  he  had  left  iSTew  Zealand ;  and 
lastly,  how  he  had  obtained  her  present  address 
from  the  musical  agents,  who  had  informed  him 
of  her  illness  and  the  loss  of  her  voice. 

"  You  are  free,  Yvonne,  at  last,"  repeated 
the  Bishop. 

The  tidings  scarcely  affected  her.  She  had 
counted  Amedee  so  long  as  dead,  even  after 
his  disastrous  resurrection,  that  now  she  could 
feel  no  shock  either  of  pain  or  relief.  It  was 
not  until  the  after-sound  of  Everard's  last  words 
penetrated  her  consciousness,  that  she  realised 
their  import.  She  startea  quickly  from  her 
attitude  of  bewilderment,  and  looked  at  him 
with  a  dawning  alarm  in  her  eyes. 

**  It  can  make  v^ery  little  difference  to  me," 
she  said. 

360   ' 


A   Demand   in   Marriage 

"  I  thought  it  might  make  all  the  difference 
m  the  world  to  me,"  said  Everard.  "  Do  you 
think  I  have  ever  ceased  to  love  you  ? " 

There  was  the  note  of  pain  in  his  voice 
which  all  her  life  long  had  had  power  to 
move  her  simple  nature.  She  trembled  a 
little  as  she  answered :  — 

"  It  is  all  so  long  ago,  now.  We  have 
changed." 

"  You  have  not  changed,"  he  said,  with 
grave  tenderness.  "You  are  still  the  same 
sweet,  flower-like  woman  that  was  my  wife. 
And  I  have  not  changed.  I  have  longed  for 
you  all  through  these  bitter,  lonely  years.  Do 
you  know  why  I  left  Fulminster  ?  " 

"  No,"  murmured  Yvonne. 

"  Because  it  grew  unbearable  —  without  you. 
I  thought  a  changed  scene  and  new  responsi- 
bilities would  fill  my  thoughts.  I  was  mis- 
taken. And  added  to  my  want  of  you  was 
remorse  for  harshness  in  that  terrible  hour." 

"  I  have  only  thought  of  your  kindness, 
Everard,"  said  Yvonne,  with  tears  in  her  eyes. 
His  emotion  impressed  her  deeply  with  a  sense 
of  his  suffering. 

He  rose,  came  forward  and  bent  over  her 
chair. 

361 


Derelicts 

"  Will  you  come  back  with  me,  Yvonne  ? " 

She  would  have  given  worlds  to  be  away ; 
to  have,  at  least,  a  few  hours  to  consider  her 
answer.  He  expected  it  at  once.  Feminine 
instinct  desperately  sought  evasion. 

"  I  shall  be  of  no  use  to  you.  I  can't  sing 
any  more.     Listen." 

She  turned  sideways  in  her  chair,  and 
drawing  back  her  head  far  from  him,  began, 
with  a  smile,  the  "  Aria  "  of  the  Angel  in  the 
Elijah.  The  grave  man  drew  himself  up, 
shocked  to  the  heart.  He  had  not  realised 
what  the  loss  of  her  voice  meant.  Instead 
of  the  pure  dove-notes  that  had  stirred  the 
passion  of  his  manhood,  nothing  came  from 
her  lips  but  toneless,  wheezing  sounds.  She 
stopped,  bravely  tried  to  laugh,  but  the  laugh 
was  choked  in  a  sob  and  she  burst  into  tears. 

"  Come  back  with  me,  my  darling,"  he  said, 
bending  down  again.  "  I  will  love  you  all  the 
more  tenderly." 

Yvonne  dried  her  eyes  in  her  impulsive  way. 

"  I  am  foolish,"  she  said.  "  Crying  can't 
mend  it." 

"  I  will  devote  the  rest  of  my  life  to  making 
compensation,"  said  the  Bishop.  "  Come, 
Yvonne." 

362  , 


A   Demand  in   Marriage 

"  Oh,  give  me  time  to  answer  you,  Everard," 
she  cried,  driven  to  bay  at  last.  "  It  is  all  sc 
strange  and  sudden." 

He  left  her  side,  with  a  kind  of  sigh,  and 
resumed  his  former  seat.  He  was  somewhat 
disappointed.  He  had  not  contemplated  the 
chance  of  her  refusal.  A  glance,  however, 
round  the  shabby,  low-ceilinged  room  reas- 
sured him.  The  coarse,  not  immaculate  table- 
cloth, the  homely  crockery,  the  half-emptied 
potted-meat  tins  on  the  table,  the  threadbare 
hearthrug  at  his  feet  —  all  spoke,  if  not  of  pov- 
erty, at  least  of  very  narrow  means.  She  could 
not  surely  hesitate.     But  she  did. 

"  Take  your  time  —  of  course,"  he  said, 
crossing  his  gaitered  legs.  There  was  a  short 
silence.  At  last  she  said,  with  a  little  quiver  of 
the  lip :  — 

"  I  promised  you,  I  know.  But  things  have 
altered  so  since  then.  I  thought  I  should 
always  be  free.     But  now  I  am  not,  you  see." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  he  cried,  startled. 

"  It  is  Stephen,"  Yvonne  explained.  "  He 
saved  me  from  starvation,  gave  me  all  he  had, 
to  make  me  well  again,  and  has  been  slaving 
all  this  time  to  support  me.  You  don't  know 
how  nobly  he  has  behaved  to  me  —  yes,  nobly, 
363 


Derelicts 

Everard,  there  is  no  other  word  for  it.  He 
has  rights  over  me  that  a  brother  or  father 
would  have  —  I  could  not  'eave  him  without 
his  consent.  It  would  be  cruel  and  ungrateful. 
Don't  you  see  that  it  would  be  wicked  of  me, 
Everard,"  she  added  earnestly. 

His  face  clouded  over.  Pride  rose  in  revolt. 
He  crushed  it  down,  however,  and  suffered  the 
humiliation. 

"It  would  lift  a  responsibility  from  his 
shoulders,"  he  said.  "  I  myself  am  willing  to 
take  him  by  the  hand  again,  and  help  him  to 
rise  from  his  present  position." 

"  You  will  let  bygones  be  bygones  —  quite  ?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  replied  Everard. 

"  He  suffers  dreadfully  still,"  said  Yvonne. 

"  I  will  do  my  best  to  heal  the  wound," 
replied  the  Bishop.  "  1  own  I  have  judged 
him  too  harshly  already." 

A  flush  of  pleasure  arose  in  Yvonne's  cheeks, 
and  her  eyes  thanked  him.  Then  she  reflected, 
and  said  somewhat  sadly  :  — 

"  Perhaps  if  you  help  him  in  that  way,  he 
won't  miss  me." 

"  I  will  guarantee  his  prosperity,"  he  an- 
swered, with  dignified  conviction.  And  then, 
changing  his  manner,  after  a  pause,  and  lean- 
364' 


A   Demand  in   Marri 


age 


ing  forward  and  looking  at  her  hungeringly.^ 
"  Yvonne,"  he  said,  "  you  will  come  and  share 
my  life  again  —  in  a  new  world,  where  every- 
thing is  beautiful  —  ?  I  have  been  growing 
old  there,  without  you.  You  will  make  me 
young  again,  and  the  blessing  of  God  will 
be  upon  us.  I  must  have  you  with  me, 
Yvonne.  I  cannot  live  in  peace  without 
your  smile  and  your  happiness  around  me. 
My   child  —  " 

His  voice  grew  thick  with  emotion.  He 
stood  up  and  stretched  out  his  arms  to  her. 
Yvonne  rose  timidly  and  advanced  toward 
him,  drawn  by  his  pleading.  But  just  as  his 
hands  were  about  to  touch  her,  she  hung  back. 

"You  must  ask  Stephen  for  me,"  she  said, 
in  her  serious,  simple  way. 

His  hands  fell  to  his  sides,  in  a  gesture  of 
impatience. 

"  Impossible.  How  can  I  do  such  a  thing? 
It  would  be  absurd." 

"  But  I  can't,"  she  said. 

Her  tiny  figure,  the  plaintiveness  of  hei 
upturned  face,  the  wistfulness  of  her  soft  eyes, 
brought  back  to  him  a  flood  of  memories. 
She  was  still  the  same  sweet,  innocent  soul. 
The  lines  about  his  lips  relaxed  into  a  smile, 
36s 


Derelicts 

and  he  took  her,  yielding  passively,  into  his 
arms  and  kissed  her  cheek. 

"  I  will  do  what  you  like,  dear,"  he  said,  in 
a  low  voice.  "  Anything  in  the  world  to  win 
you  again.  I  will  ask  him.  It  will  be  making 
reparation.     And  then  you  will  marry  me  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  murmured  Yvonne  faintlv,  "  I  prom- 
ised you." 

"  Why  did  you  not  write  to  me  again  ?  "  he 
asked,  still  holding  her  hands. 

"  I  was  going  to  write  when  the  answer 
came,"  she  said,  looking  down.  "  But  no 
answer  did  come.  And  then,  I  was  content  to 
help  Stephen." 

"You  could  have  helped  Stephen,  all  the 
same." 

"  Oh,  no  !  "  she  cried,  with  a  swift  look  up- 
wards.    "  Don't  you  understand  ?  " 

The  Bishop  saw  the  delicacy  of  the  point, 
and  motioned  an  affirmative.  But  he  regarded 
Stephen  with  mingled  feelings.  It  was  intensely 
repugnant  to  him  to  find  his  once  reprobated 
cousin  a  barrier  between  himself  and  Yvonne. 
An  uneasy  suspicion  passed  through  his  mind. 
Might  not  Stephen  be  even  a  more  serious 
rival  ? 

"  You  are  not  marrying  me  merely  on 
166  . 


A   Demand  in   Marriage 

account  of  that  promise  years  ago,  Yvonne  ?  **" 
he  asked. 

"  Oh,  no,  Everard,"  she  replied  gently.     "  It 
s  because  you  want  me — and  because  it's  right.'*^ 

He  kissed  her  good-bye. 

"  I  shall  not  visit  you  here  again,  Yvonne,'* 
he  said.     "  When  I  receive  the  final  answer  I 
shall  make  suitable  arrangements.    We  shall  be 
married  quietly,  by  special  licence.     Will  tha^ 
please  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Yvonne.     "  Thank  you." 

At  the  door  he  turned  for  a  parting  glance. 
Then  he  descended  the  stairs,  with  the  inten- 
tion of  broaching  the  matter  to  Joyce  then  and 
there.  But  although  he  found  lights  burning 
in  the  shop,  Joyce  was  nowhere  to  be  seen». 
Nor  were  there  any  apparent  means  of  ascer- 
taining his  whereabouts.  The  Bishop  bit  his. 
Hp  with  annoyance.  He  did  not  wish  to  pro- 
crastinate in  this  affair.  Suddenly  his  eye  fell 
upon  an  old  stationery-rack  against  the  wall,  in 
which  were  visible  the  paper  and  envelopes  used 
for  the  business.  With  prompt  decision  the 
Bishop  took  what  was  necessary,  sought  and 
found  pen  and  ink,  and  wrote  at  Joyce's  table 
d  letter,  which  he  addressed  and  left  in  a  con- 
spicuous position.  Then  he  found?  with  somct 
;67    . 


Derelicts 

difficulty  the  street-door  of  the  house  and  let 
himself  out. 

Joyce,  whom  a  longing  for  air  had  at  last 
driven  outside,  was  walking  up  and  down  the 
pavement,  keeping  his  eye  on  the  door.  As 
soon  as  he  witnessed  Everard's  departure,  he 
entered  and  went  through  the  passage  into  the 
shop.  The  letter  attracted  his  attention.  He 
opened  it  and  read  :  — 

Dear  Stephen,  —  I  wished  for  a  word  with  you. 
But  as  the  matter  is  urgent,  I  write.  I  should  like 
to  express  to  you  my  sense  of  the  generous  chivalry 
of  your  conduct  toward  Yvonne.  I  should  also  like 
to  hold  out  to  you  the  hand  of  sincere  friendship. 

in  earnest  of  this  I  approach  you,  as  man  to  man, 
with  reference  to  one  of  the  most  solemn  affairs  in 
life.  Yvonne,  gratefully  acknowledging  the  vast 
obligations  under  which  she  is  bound  to  you,  has 
made  her  acceptance  of  my  offer  of  remarriage 
dependent  upon  your  consent.  For  this  consent, 
therefore,  I  earnestly  beg  you. 

For  the  future,  in  what  way  soever  my  friendship 
can  be  of  use  to  you,  it  will  most  gladly  be  directed. 
Yours  sincerely, 

E.  Chisely. 

BuRGON*s  Hotel,  W. 

Joyce  grew  faint  as  he   read.     The  words 
swam   before   his   eyes.      A   great   pain    shot 
368 


A   Demand  in   Marriage 

through  his  heart.  The  letter  contained  one 
torturing  fact  —  that  of  Yvonne's  acquiescence. 
The  Bishop's  acknow'edgment  of  his  upright- 
ness, the  courtesy  of  the  formal  request,  the 
offer  of  friendship  —  all  were  meaningless 
phrases,  Yvonne  was  going  to  leave  him  —  of 
her  own  free-will.  Although  his  fears  had 
anticipated  the  blow,  it  none  the  less  stunned 
him.  He  flung  himself  down,  by  his  table, 
with  a  groan,  and  buried  his  face  in  his  arms. 
The  realisation  of  what  Yvonne  was  to  him 
flooded  him  with  a  mighty  rush.  She  was  his 
hope  of  salvation  in  this  world  and  the  next,, 
his  guardian  angel,  his  universe.  Without  her 
all  was  chaos,  void  and  horrible. 

Presently  Yvonne's  voice  was  heard  calling; 
him  from  the  top  of  the  stairs  :  — 

"Stephen!" 

He  raised  a  haggard  face,  and  with  an  effort 
steadied  his  voice  to  reply.  Then  he  rose, 
turned  off  the  gas,  from  force  of  habit,  and 
went  with  heavy  tread  up  the  stairs. 

"  Your  tea,"  said  Yvonne,  busying  herself 
with  a  kettle.  "  I  am  making  you  some 
afresh." 

"  I  will  go  and  wash  my  hands,"  he  said 
drearily 

24  369 


Derelicts 

He  mounted  to  his  bedroom  and  cleansed 
himself  from  the  book-dust  and  returned  to 
Yvonne.  He  drew  his  chair  to  the  table. 
She  poured  him  out  his  tea,  and  helped  him  to 
butter,  according  to  a  habit  into  which  she  had 
fallen.  She  deplored  the  spoilt  toast.  He  said 
that  it  did  not  matter.  But  when  he  tried  to 
eat,  the  food  stuck  in  his  throat.  Yvonne 
made  no  pretence  at  eating,  but  trifled  with  her 
teaspoon,  with  downcast  eyes.  Joyce  looked 
at  her  anxiously.  She  seemed  to  have  grown 
<older.  The  childlike  expression  had  changed 
into  a  sad,  womanly  seriousness.  Presently 
she  raised  her  eyes,  soft  and  appealing  as  ever, 
and  met  his. 

"  Did  you  see  Everard  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No.  I  was  out.  But  he  left  a  note  — 
that  told  me  everything." 

"  He  asks  for  your  consent  ?  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  will  you  give  it  ?  "  she  asked,  below 
her  breath. 

"It  would  be  worse  than  folly  for  me  to  try 
to  withhold  it,"  he  said,  bitterly. 

"  I  will  stay  with  you,  and  go  on  living  this 
life,  if  you  wish." 

"  And  yourself?  " 

370    , 


A  Demand   in   Marriage 

"  I  don't  count,"  she  said,  "  I  must  do  as  I 
am  told." 

"  Would  you  be  happy  with  Everard  ?  "  he 
asked  huskily. 

"  Yes  —  of  course  —  I  was  before,"  she  re- 
plied.    But  her  cheek  grew  paler. 

"  And  you  would  stay,  if  I  asked  you,  and 
share  all  this  struggle  and  poverty  with  me  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  refuse  ?  Don't  I  owe  you 
my  life?" 

He  looked  for  a  tremulous  second  into  her 
pure  eyes  and  knew  that  he  was  master  of  her 
fate.  The  condition  she  had  imposed  upon 
Everard  was  no  graceful  act  of  acknowledg- 
ment. It  was  a  serious  placing  of  her  future  in 
his  hands.  He  w?s  silent  for  a  few  moments^ 
deep  in  agitated  thought,  trembling  with  a 
struggle  against  a  fierce  temptation.  The  hand 
that  nervously  tugged  at  his  moustache  was 
shaking.  Yvonne  read  the  anxious  trouble  on 
his  face. 

"  Don't  worry  over  it  now,"  she  said,  gently. 
"  There  is  time,  you  know.  Why  should 
people  always  want  to  decide  things  straight 
off.? " 

"You    are   right,    Yvonne,"    said    Stephen. 
"  Let  us  forget  it  for  a  little." 
371  - 


Derelicts 

"  Your  poor  tea,"  said  Yvonne,  with  pathetic 
return  to  her  old  manner.  "  It  will  never  be 
drunk.     And  do  eat  something,  to  please  me." 

But  it  was  a  miserable  meal.  The  tabooed 
subject  filled  the  heart  and  thoughts  of  each. 
It  was  with  an  effort  that  they  caught  the  drift 
of  casual  commonplaces  uttered  from  time  to 
time.  Now  and  then,  during  the  long  spells 
of  silence,  Yvonne  stole  a  swift  feminine  glance 
at  his  face.  But  his  sombre  expression  seemed 
to  tell  her  nothing  of  that  which  she  longed  to 
know.  At  last  the  farce  ended.  They  rose 
from  the  table  and  went  to  their  usual  seats  by 
the  fireside.  Joyce  filled  his  pipe,  and  was 
fumbling  in  his  pockets  for  a  match,  when 
Yvonne  came  forward  with  a  spill  and  stood 
before  him  holding  it  until  the  pipe  was  alight. 
He  tried  to  thank  her,  but  the  words  would 
not  come.  The  tender  act  of  intimacy  made 
his  heart  swell  too  painfully.  Yvonne  rang  the 
bell  and  the  elderly,  slatternly  maid-of-all-work, 
cleared  away  the  tea-things.  Sarah  was  one  of 
the  elements  of  the  establishment  that  made 
Joyce  hate  his  poverty.  She  drank,  was  un- 
clean, was  a  perpetual  soil  in  the  atmosphere 
that  Yvonne  breathed.  The  sight  of  her  was 
a  new  factor  in  the  case  against  himself. 
372  ' 


A  Demand  in   Marriage 

It  was  a  terrible  decision  that  he  was  called 
upon  to  make.  On  the  one  hand,  wealth  and 
ease  and  social  happiness  for  Yvonne,  despair 
and  misery  for  himself  On  the  other,  a  sel- 
fish happiness  for  himself,  and  for  Yvonne  this 
squalor  and  ostracism.  He  knew  that  her 
sweet,  gentle  nature  would  accept  the  latter 
portion  unmurmuringly.  A  voice  rang  in  his 
ears  the  certainty  that  she  would  marry  him, 
if  he  pleaded.  To  repress  the  temptation  to 
cast  all  other  thoughts  but  his  yearning  pas- 
sion to  the  winds  was  indescribable  torture. 

"  I  wish  I  could  sing  to  you,"  she  said, 
breaking  a  long  silence.  "  I  don't  know  what 
to  do  now,  when  I  feel  things.  Once  I  could 
sing  them." 

"  I  should  ask  you  to  sing  Gounod's  '  Sere- 
nade,' "  said  Joyce. 

"  Oh,  not  that ! "  she  cried  quickly.  "  It 
was  the  last  thing  I  ever  sang  to  you,  and  it 
brought  us  bad  luck." 

For  a  moment  he  put  a  lover's  passionate 
interpretation  upon  her  words.  His  heart  beat 
fast.  He  controlled  the  wild  impulse  that 
seized  him,  biting  through  the  amber  of  liis 
pipe  with  the  nervous  effort. 

And  then  he  realised  that  He  must  be  alone 


Derelicts 

to  work  out  this  stern  problem,  on  whose  solu- 
tion depended  the  happiness  of  three  human 
lives.     He  rose  to  his  feet. 

"  I  am  going  out,  Yvonne,"  he  said.  In  a 
constrained  voice.  "  All  this  is  rather  upset- 
ting —  and  you  had  better  go  to  bed  early. 
You  look  tired." 

"Yes.  I  have  a  splitting  headache,"  said 
Yvonne. 

She  tried  to  smile  brightly,  as  he  wished  her 
good-night.  But  when  the  door  closed  upon 
him,  the  smile  faded,  and  her  face  grew  drawn, 
almost  haggard.  A  spirit  had  descended, 
touched  her  with  magical  wings,  and  changed 
at  last  the  child  into  the  woman.  Her  eyes 
were  set  in  steadfast  envisaging  of  the  future  ; 
and  they  beheld  the  responsibilities  and  sad- 
nesses of  life,  no  longer  as  vague  terrors  and 
discomforts  from  which  her  light  bird-like 
nature  shrank  to  the  nearest  refuge,  but  as 
dull  realities,  commonplace  in  form  and  grey 
in  hue. 

It  was  her  duty  to  go  back  to  Everard, 
Stephen  not  wanting  her  ;  for  she  had  prom- 
ised. It  was  her  duty  to  ask  Stephen  for  his 
consent.  And  it  was  Stephen's  duty  to  give 
it,  if  he  did  not  want  her  for  more  than  daily 
374.  ' 


A   Demand   in    Marnage 

companionship.  She  had  proved  that  Stephen 
did  not  love  her.  Never  had  she  felt  so  keenly 
the  failure  of  her  womanhood.  It  had  no' 
cleared  his  life  of  haunting  cares.  If  it  had,  his 
heart  would  have  been  stirred  with  needs  for 
closer  union.  The  weapon  of  her  sex  was 
powerless.  Newer  knowledge  had  come  to 
her.  He  needed  her  less  than  Everard.  She 
argued  with  desperate  logic.  And  yet  there 
was  a  lingering,  feverish  hope  —  one  that  made 
her  now  and  then  draw  a  sharp  convulsive 
breath,  as  she  sat  staring,  with  clear  vision,  at 
Ver  life. 


CHAPTER  XXIl 


SEEKING    SALVATION 


He  could  walk  no  longer  through  the  drizzling 
rain,  in  futile  struggle  with  his  soul's  needs. 
As  possible  to  cut  out  his  heart  and  fling  it  at 
Everard's  feet  as  to  surrender  Yvonne.  He 
called  himself  a  fooi. 

The  glare  in  front  of  a  rheap  music-hall  at- 
tracted him.  He  entered,  mounted  to  the 
nine-penny  balcony,  where  he  stood  leaning 
over  the  wooden  partition,  wedged  among  a 
crowd  of  loungers.  The  air  was  filled  with  the 
smoke  of  cheap  tobacco  and  the  fumes  of  the 
bar  behind.  A  girl  on  the  stage  was  singing  a 
song  in  the  chorus  of  which  the  thronged 
house  roared  lustily.  Then  came  a  tenor 
vocalist  with  drawing-room  ballads.  Joyce 
attended  absently,  hearing  and  seeing  in  a  con- 
fused dream.  A  neighbour  asking  him  for  a 
light  aroused  him  from  his  reverie.  He  won- 
dered  why    he    had   come.     To-night   of    all 

376' 


Seeking  Salvation 

nights,  when  he  might  be  at  home  in  the  joy 
of  his  heart's  desire.     Yet  he  stayed. 

A  flashing  family  appeared  riding  on  nonde- 
script cycles.  He  watched  them  with  half-shut 
eyes,  caressing  a  quaint  conceit  that  they  were  his 
thoughts  whirling  around  in  concrete  form.  The 
bursts  of  deafening  applause  seemed  to  soothe 
him.  Presently  a  street-scene  cloth  was  let  down 
and  a  battered  man  appeared  and  sang  a  song 
about  drink  and  twins  and  brokers.  He  threw 
such  humourous  gusto  into  the  performance  that 
Joyce  laughed  in  spite  of  his  preoccupation,  and 
remained  in  amused  anticipation  of  his  second 
turn.  The  bell  tinkled.  The  "comedian"  came 
on  and  was  greeted  with  vociferous  applause. 
With  music-hall  realism  he  was  dressed  in 
prison-clothes,  glengarry,  woollen  stockings, 
and  black-arrowed  suit  all  complete.  He  had 
made  up  his  face  into  a  startling  brute.  Joyce 
felt  sick.  He  did  not  catch  the  first  verse; 
only  the  concluding  lines  of  the  chorus, 

**  I  've  done  my  bit  of  time. 
For  'itting  of  my  missus  on  the  chump,  chump, 
chump." 

But  then  the  man  began  to  speak,  and  Joyce 
could  not   help  hearing.     A  horrible   fascina- 
tion  held   him.      The   ignoble  figure  poured 
377 


Derelicts 

out  with  grotesque  and  voluble  cynicism  the 
comic  history  of  the  prison-life ;  the  plank-bed, 
the  skilly,  the  oakum,  the  exercise-yard.  He 
sketched  his  pals,  detailed  the  sordid  tricks  for 
obtaining  food,  the  mean  malingering,  the  de- 
basing habits.  And  all  with  a  horrible  fidelity. 
The  audience  shrieked  with  laughter.  But 
Joyce  lost  sense  of  the  mime.  The  man  was 
real,  one  of  the  degraded  creatures  with  whom 
he  himself  had  once  been  indistinguishably 
mingled  —  a  loathsome  fact  from  the  past.  The 
smell  of  the  prison  floated  over  the  footlights 
and  filled  his  nostrils.  All  his  overwrought 
nerves  quivering  with  repulsion,  he  broke 
through  the  crowd  hemming  him  in  against  the 
partition,  and  rushed  down  into  the  street. 

How  long  and  whither  he  walked  he  did  not 
know.  At  last  he  found  himself  within  famil- 
iar latitudes,  outside  the  Angel  Tavern.  He 
«vas  wet  through  from  the  fine,  penetrating 
rain,  tired,  cold,  and  utterly  miserable.  The 
revulsion  of  feeling  in  the  music-hall  had 
thrown  him  back  years  in  his  self-esteem. 
The  soil  of  the  gaol  had  never  seemed  so 
ineflFaceable.  In  the  blaze  of  light  by  the  tav- 
ern door  he  paused,  irresolute.  Then,  remem- 
37«  < 


Seeking  Salvation 

bering  the  disastrous  results  of  an  attempt  years 
before  to  seek  such  consolation,  he  shivered 
and  turned  away.     It  was  too  dangerous. 

About  a  hundred  yards  further,  a  woman 
passed  him,  turned,  and  overtook  him. 

"  I  thought  it  was  you,"  she  said.  He 
recognised  the  voice  as  that  of  Annie  Stevens. 
It  was  not  far  from  the  spot  where  he  had 
first  met  her,  and  where^  some  short  time 
after,  Ke  had  met  her  again.  For  months, 
however,  he  had  lost  sight  of  her.  He  recog- 
nised her  voice,  but  her  appearance  was  un- 
familiar, and  her  face  was  half  hidden  by  a 
Salvation  Army  bonnet.  The  apparent  cynicism 
of  her  attire  revolted  him. 

"  Why  are  you  masquerading  like  this  ? " 
he  asked,  continuing  to  walk  onwards. 

"  It 's  not  masquerading.  It 's  real.  I 
recognised  you,  and  thought  perhaps  you  'd 
care  to  know." 

He  slackened  his  pace  imperceptibly,  and 
she  walked  by  his  side. 

"  You  don't  seem  to  believe  it,"  she  re- 
sumed. "  I  don't  tell  lies.  It 's  the  truth 
that  has  generally  cursed  me." 

"  Then  why  are  you  walking  up  and  down 
here  at  this  time  of  night  ?  " 

-170  ■ 


Derelicts 

"  Doing  rescue  work.** 

"  Have  you  rescued  any  one  yet  ?  **  asked 
Joyce,  with  a  touch  of  sarcasm. 

"  No.     I  scarce  expect  to." 

"  Then  why  are  you  trying  ?  " 

"  Because  it 's  the  beastHest  thing  I  could 
think  of  doing,"  she  said,  stopping  abruptly, 
and  facing  him,  as  he  turned,  in  the  defiant 
way  he  remembered  from  the  theatre  days. 

"  You  're  an  odd  girl,"  he  said. 

"  You  don't  suppose  I  wear  this  disgusting 
bonnet  and  get  hustled  by  roughs  and  black- 
guarded by  women  because  I  like  it !  I 
have  n't  been  converted,  and  I  don't  shriek 
out  *  Hallelujah,*  and  I  won't,  —  but  I  earn  an 
honest  living  at  the  Shelter  during  the  day,  and 
at  night  I  come  out.  It's  the  beastliest  thing  I 
can  think  of  doing,"  she  repeated.  "  If  I  knew 
of  anything  beastlier  I  'd  do  it.  I  've  had  flames 
inside  me  since  I  gave  you  away,  —  I'd  have 
killed  myself  for  you  after,  —  and  hell  since  I 
went  on  the  streets,  —  but  I  think  the  other 
was  worse.  I  've  learned  what  you  felt  like ; 
now  I  'm  trying  to  burn  out  the  fire  —  " 

"  Stop  for  a  moment,"  he  said,  with  a  queer 
catch  in  his  throat.     "  Do  you  mean  you  are 
doing  this  for  your  own  inner  self?  " 
380' 


Seeking  Salvation 

"  Yes,"  she  replied,  her  direct  intuition  divin- 
ing the  implied  alternative.  "  I  don't  know 
much  about  Jesus  and  my  immortal  soul. 
That  *11  come.  I  want  one  day  to  be  able  to 
remember  that  I  loved  you  —  without  hating 
myself  and  feeling  sick  with  the  shame  and  the 
horror  of  it  all.  You  may  think  me  a  silly  fool 
if  you  like,  but  that 's  why  I  'm  doing  it.  Let 
us  walk  on.     We  need  n't  attract  attention." 

This  was  wise  ;  for  more  than  one  passer-by 
had  turned  round,  struck  by  the  two  intent 
white  faces.  Joyce  obeyed  passively,  but  con- 
tinued for  some  moments  to  look  down  upon 
her  in  great  wonder.  An  idea,  v^Hich  he 
became  dimly  aware  had  been  struggling  fot 
birth  in  the  dark  of  his  soul  for  the  past  two 
hours,  dawned  upon  him  amid  a  strange,  ex- 
ulting excitement.  Suddenly  he  took  her  by 
the  arm  and  held  it  very  tightly.  She  looked 
up  at  him,  astonished. 

"  What  is  the  matter  with  you  ?  " 

"  Do  you  know  what  you  have  done  to- 
night ?  "  he  said,  in  a  shaking  voice.  "  You 
have  shown  me  how  to  burn  out  my  hell  too. 
You  have  retrieved  any  wrong  you  have  done 
me.  If  my  forgiveness  is  worth  having,  you 
have  it,  from  the  depths  of  my  soul." 


Derelicts 

He  was  strangely  moved.  In  the  impulse 
of  his  exaltation,  he  drew  her  quickly  into  the 
gloom  of  a  doorway  —  the  pavement  was 
momentarily  deserted  —  and  kissed  her.  She 
uttered  a  little  cry  and  shrank  back. 

"  Is  that  for  forgiveness  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  cried  ;  and  then  he  broke  from 
her  abruptly,  and  went  on  along  the  pavement 
with  great  strides. 

He  was  no  longer  uncertain.  The  problem 
of  his  life  was  solved.  His  mind  was  crystal 
clear.  At  last  the  time  had  come  for  the  great 
atonement  to  his  degraded  self,  the  supreme 
sacrifice   that  should   clear  his  being  of  stain. 

At  last  he  could  perform  that  act  of  renun- 
ciation that  would  give  the  strength  back  into 
his  eyes  to  meet  calmly  the  scrutiny  of  his 
fellow-man.  Renunciation  !  The  word  rang 
in  his  ears  and  echoed  to  his  footsteps. 

He  did  not  doubt  that  it  would  not  be  to 
Yvonne's  lesser  happiness  to  regain  her  lost 
environment  of  luxury  and  tender  care.  On 
the  other  hand,  he  judged  her  rightly  enough  to 
know  that  she  would  have  found  compensating 
pleasures  in  a  life  of  privation  w'th  himself. 
Had  it  not  been  so,  mere  manliness  would 
have  decided  in  the  Bishop's  favour.  In  per- 
382    , 


Seeking   Salvation 

feet  fairness  (he  saw  now),  he  could  have 
claimed  her.  His  sacrifice  was  made  in  pure 
loyalty  to  his  conscience. 

And  it  had  been  reserved,  too,  for  that  igno- 
rant, wayward  woman,  who  had  groped  her 
unguided  way  thus  grotesquely  to  the  Princi- 
ple, to  have  led  him  thither  and  revealed  its 
elemental  application.  He  felt  a  stirring  of 
shame  that  strengthened  his  manhood. 

The  rain  had  stopped.  The  clouds  broke 
and  drifted  across  the  heavens,  and  a  misty 
moon  appeared  at  intervals,  shedding  its  pale 
light  upon  the  unlovely  thoroughfare.  A  fresh 
breeze  sprang  up  and  made  Joyce,  in  his  wet 
things,  shiver  with  cold.  At  the  nearest  tav- 
ern he  stopped,  entered,  called  for  some  hot 
spirits,  this  time  from  no  temptation  to  drown 
care,  and  asked  for  writing  materials.  Then, 
in  the  midst  of  the  noise  of  thick  voices  and 
clatter  of  drinking  vessels,  he  wrote  at  a  corner 
of  the  bar  his  letter  of  renunciation. 

Dear  Everard,  —  I  accept  your  letter  in  the 
spirit  in  which  it  was  written.  I  put  the  sweetest 
and  purest  of  God's  creatures  into  your  keeping. 
Cherish  her. 

Yours  sincerely, 

Stephen  Joyce. 
383 


Derelicts 

A  few  minutes  afterwards  he  dropped  it  into 
a  pillar-box.  The  faint  patter  of  its  fall  inside 
struck  like  a  death-note  upon  his  ear,  shocked 
him  with  a  sense  of  the  irrevocable.  Now 
that  the  act  of  renunciation  was  accomplished, 
he  felt  frightened.  The  immensity  of  his  sac- 
rifice began  to  loom  before  him.  He  became 
conscious  of  the  dull  premonitions  of  an  agony 
hitherto  undreamed  of,  for  all  his  suffering  in 
the  past. 

Shiveringly  he  bent  his  steps  homeward. 
The  gas  was  burning  dimly  in  the  sitting- 
room.  As  was  usual  on  the  rare  occasions 
when  he  had  spent  the  evening  out,  Yvonne 
had  brought  down  his  bedroom  candle  and  had 
laid  his  modest  supper  neatly  for  him.  His 
slippers  were  warming  by  the  fire.  At  the  sight, 
his  pain  grew  greater.  Having  taken  oflf  his 
wet  boots  and  lit  his  candle  —  he  could  eat  no 
supper  —  he  turned  off  the  gas,  and  went  out 
of  the  room.  On  the  landing  outside  Yvonne's 
door  were  the  tiny  shoes  she  had  placed  there 
for  Sarah  to  clean.  He  looked  at  them  for  a 
second  or  two  and  mounted  the  stairs  hurriedly. 

In  the  shock  and  excitement  of  battle  a 
man  can  bear  the  amputation  of  a  mangled 
limb  without  great  suffering.  It  is  afterward? 
384. 


Seeking  Salvation 

that  the  agony  sets  in,  when  the  nerves  have 
quieted  to  responsiveness.  So  it  was  with 
Joyce  on  that  sleepless  night  of  his  great  re- 
nunciation, and  with  his  misery  was  mingled 
despair  lest  all  should  prove  to  be  futile,  his 
theory  of  renunciation ;  a  ghastly  fallacy.  Time 
was  when  he  would  have  mocked  at  the  propo- 
sition. Could  he  even  now  defend  it  upon 
rational  grounds  ?  Had  he  not  cut  off  his  leg 
to  compensate  for  the  loss  of  an  arm,  thereby 
adding  to  the  gaiety  of  the  high  gods?  He 
tossed  about  in  the  bed  in  anguish,  "  burning 
out  his  hell." 

A  man  of  sensitive,  emotional  temperament^ 
however,  cannot  pass  through  such  an  ordeal 
unchanged.  Some  fibres  must  be  shrivelled 
up,  whilst  others  are  toughened.  Joyce  rose 
in  the  morning  with  aching  head  and  exhausted 
nerves,  but  still  with  a  dull  sense  of  calm. 
Fallacy  or  not,  at  any  rate  he  had  chosen  tke 
man's  part.  The  consciousness  of  it  was  an 
element  of  strength.  He  dressed  and  went 
downstairs. 

Yvonne  was  already  in  the  room,  neat  and 

dainty  as  usual,  making  the  toast  for  breakfast. 

She  was  pale  and  had  the  faint  rings  below  the 

eyes  that  ever  tell  tales  on  a  woman's  face.    She 

25  385 


Derelicts 

looked  round  at  him  anxiously,  as  she  knelt 
before  the  fire.  He  saw  her  trouble  and  went 
and  sat  in  the  armchair  beside  her  and  spread 
out  his  hands  to  warm  them. 

"You  have  been  worrying,  my  poor  little 
Yvonne,"  he  said  gently.  "  I  was  a  selfish 
beast  to  let  you  think  I  wanted  to  make  up 
my  mind,  when  my  course  was  so  plain.  I 
wrote  to  Everard  last  night.  I  told  him  to 
cherish  the  treasure  that  he  has  got.  You 
shouldn't  have  worried  over  it." 

Yvonne  turned  away  her  face  from  him,  and 
remained  silent  for  some  moments,  half  kneel- 
ing, half  sitting,  the  toasting-fork  drooping 
idly  from  her  hand. 

"  It  was  foolish  of  me,"  she  replied  at  last. 
"  But  it  seemed  hard  to  leave  you  alone  —  and 
I  've  got  so  used  to  this  little  place  —  one  gets 
attached  to  places,  like  a  cat —  Did  you — 
were  you  sorry  to  give  me  away  ? " 

"  Of  course,"  said  Joyce.  "  I  thought  we 
could  go  on  being  brother  and  sister  till  the 
end  of  all  things.  Well,  all  things  have  an 
end,  and  this  is  it." 

"  You  would  not  prefer  me  to  stay  ?  "  asked 
Yvonne,  in  her  soft  voice. 

He  would  have  given  his  soul  to  have  been 
386    ' 


Seeking  Salvation 

able  to  throw  his  arms  round  her,  passionately 
and  wildly  —  she  was  so  near  him,  so  madden- 
ingly desired.  Did  she  realise,  he  wondered, 
what  flame  was  in  her  words  ?  He  leaned 
back  in  the  chair,  as  if  to  avert  the  temptation 
oy  increasing  the  distance  between  them. 

"  No,"  he  said,  with  a  sharp  breath,  "  I 
could  not  —  it  will  be  a  wrench  breaking  up 
the  —  partnership.  But  it  is  all  for  the  best. 
I  know  you  will  be  happy  and  cared  for,  and 
that  will  be  a  happiness  to  me." 

Sarah  brought  in  the  breakfast  and  retired. 
They  sat  down  to  table.  Somehow  or  other 
the  meal  proceeded.  Two  things  had  come 
by  post  for  Joyce,  one  a  belated  but  laudatory 
notice  of  "  The  Wasters,"  the  other  a  cheque 
from  the  office  of  a  weekly  paper.  He  passed 
them  both  to  her,  according  to  custom. 

"  You  must  n't  bother  about  me  at  all, 
Yvonne.  I  am  in  a  different  way  of  business 
altogether  from  what  I  was  when  we  first 
started  housekeeping.  The  new  book  will  do 
ever  so  much  better  than  '  The  Wasters.'  I 
shall  miss  you  terribly  —  at  first  —  but  it  will 
all  dry  straight,  Yvonne.  I  dare  say  I  shall 
go  on  living  here.  Runcle  and  I  are  immense; 
pals,  you  know  —  perhaps  I  may  go  into  par* 
387 


Derelicts 

nership  with  him  and  bring  some  modern  go 
ahead  ideas  into  the  concern  —  become  a  Quar- 
itch  CM*  Sotheran  —  who  knows  ?  Yes,  I 
should  n't  like  to  leave  these  quaint,  dear  old 
rooms,"  he  said,  looking  round,  anywhere  but 
in  Yvonne's  face,  with  an  air  of  cheerfulness 
that  he  felt  in  his  heart  must  be  ghastly. 
"  Something  of  you  and  your  dear  companion- 
ship will  linger  about  them.  I  shall  pretend, 
like  the  *  Marchioness,'  that  you  are  with  me." 

He  passed  his  tea-cup,  and,  meeting  her 
eyes,  tried  to  smile.  The  corners  of  her  lips 
responded  bravely. 

"  And  at  last  you  will  come  into  indisputed 
possession  of  your  furniture,'*  she  said. 

He  had  not  the  heart  to  protest.  So  they 
continued  to  talk  in  this  light  strain  of  the 
coming  parting,  until  Joyce,  looking  at  his 
watch,  found  it  was  time  to  go  down  to  the 
shop.  At  the  door,  on  his  way  out,  he  paused 
to  relight  his  pipe.  Then,  without  trusting 
himself  to  look  round,  he  left  her.  But  if  he 
had  turned  he  would  have  seen  her  grow  sud- 
denly very  white,  clutch  the  mantel-piece  for 
support  with  one  hand  while  the  other  pressed 
her  bosom  hard,  and  sway  for  a  second  or  two 
with  shut  eyes. 

388, 


Seeking  Salvation 

Downstairs  he  resumed  his  unfinished  task 
of  the  evening  before.  He  worked  at  it  dog- 
gedly, trying  not  to  think.  But  it  was  as  futile 
as  trying  to  hold  one's  breath  beyond  a  certain 
period. 

"Yvonne  is  going  —  to  marry  Everard  — 
going  for  ever  —  I  shall  be  alone  —  she  will  lie 
in  his  arms  —  I  shall  go  mad  —  God  help  me 
—  if  it  is  more  than  I  can  bear,  there  is  a  way 
out — I  can  keep  up  till  she  goes  —  she  shall 
not  know  —  afterwards."  His  brain  could  not 
work  beyond.  The  same  thoughts  throbbed 
with  almost  rhythmic  recurrence  as  he  priced 
and  catalogued  the  books.  Once  he  opened  a 
tattered  "  Marcus  Aurelius  "  :  — 

"If  pain  is  an  affliction,  it  must  affect  either 
the  body  or  the  mind ;  if  the  body  is  hurt,  let 
it  say  so ;  as  for  the  soul,  it  is  in  her  power  to 
preserve  her  serenity  and  calm,  bv  supposing 
the  accident  no  evil." 

He  laughed  to  himself  mirthlessly,  and  threw 
the  book  on  the  fourpenny  heap.  "  Or  pre- 
tending, like  the  Marchioness,"  he  said.  He 
was  scarcely  in  a  mood  for  "  Marcus  Aurelius.'* 

A  messenger-boy  appeared  with  a  letter  for 
Madame  Latour.  Joyce  sent  it  up  to  her  by  the 
shop-boy,  who  presently  brought  down  a  reply 
389. 


Derelicts 

note.  The  preparations  for  her  departure  had 
begun.  Joyce's  heart  seemed  set  in  a  vice  and 
he  nearly  cried  aloud  with  the  pain. 

The  hours  wore  on  ;  the  piles  of  books  were 
disposed  of;  nothing  to  do,  but  wait  for  cus- 
tomers. To  keep  himself  employed  he  copied 
untidy  pages  of  his  manuscript.  He  went  up 
for  dinner.  Yvonne  was  more  subdued  than 
at  breakfast,  and  they  scarcely  spoke.  When 
the  meal  was  over,  she  told  him  quietly  of  the 
letter  she  had  received. 

"  Everard  says  that  he  is  getting  the  special 
licence  to-day,  and  the  marriage  will  take  place 
to-morrow  at  St.  Luke's,  Islington.  Consider- 
ing the  circumstances,  he  thinks  it  best  that 
there  should  be  no  delay." 

"  It  is  just  as   well,"  he   replied.     "  When 
changes  come,  it  is  best  that  they  should  come 
swiftly.       Has    he    made    any    more    definite 
jrangements  —  the  hour  ?  " 

"  He  will  send  me  a  message  later." 

"  You  will  have  to  put  up  your  things.  li 
I  can  help  you,  Yvonne  —  " 

"  Thanks  —  no.  I  have  so  little.  The  few 
odds  and  ends  I  shall  leave  you  —  as  me- 
mentoes. You  would  like  to  keep  them, 
would  n't  you  ?  " 

390    ' 


Seeking  Salvation 

"Thank  you,  Yvonne,"  he  said,  turning 
away.  They  had  spoken  in  subdued  voices, 
as  folks  do  when  discussing  funeral  arrange- 
ments. Joyce,  blinded  and  dazed  by  his  mis- 
ery, was  unperceptive  of  her  joylessness.  At 
the  most,  he  was  conscious  of  a  seriousness 
that,  under  the  circumstances,  was  not  unnat- 
ural. His  own  pain  he  hid  with  anxious 
effort. 

The  afternoon  hours  passed.  He  lit  the  gas 
in  the  shop,  and  proceeded  with  whatever  me- 
chanical employment  he  could  find.  It  was  a 
relief  to  be  alone.  The  old  man's  gossip 
would  have  jarred  upon  him,  driven  him  up  to 
the  sitting-room  where  the  ordeal  was  fiercest, 
or  out  into  the  hard-featured  streets.  He 
would  have  two  or  three  days  of  solitude  before 
Runcle  returned  from  Exeter. 

Messages  came  from  the  Bishop.  One  for 
Yvonne.  Another  for  him,  acknowledging 
his  letter,  announcing  that  the  hour  of  noon 
had  been  fixed  upon,  shortly  before  which  time 
a  carriage  would  be  sent  to  convey  Yvonne  to 
the  church,  and  begging  him  in  most  courte- 
ous terms  to  assist  at  the  ceremony  and  give 
Yvonne  away.  An  echo  of  the  Salvation 
Army  girl's  voice  came  back  to  him,  and  he 
291 


Derelicts 

smiled  grimly.  "  It 's  the  beastliest  thing  I 
can  do." 

He  scribbled  a  line  of  acquiescence  and  gave 
it  to  the  waiting  messenger-boy.  "  I  had  not 
thought  of  the  dregs,"  he  said  to  himself. 

That  evening  they  sat  drearily  in  their  ac- 
customed places  by  the  fireside,  each  knowing 
it  to  be  their  last  together.  Night  after  night 
they  had  spent  in  each  other's  society,  Yvonne 
sewing  or  reading  or  dreaming  in  a  lazy,  con- 
tented way,  Joyce  writing  upon  a  board  laid 
across  his  knees.  Sometimes  she  would  come 
and  lean  over  the  back  of  his  chair  and  watch 
the  words  as  they  came  from  his  pen,  her  soft 
wavy  black  hair  very  near  his  fair,  close-trimmed 
head. 

"  Send  me  away  if  I  'm  worrying  you,"  she 
used  to  say. 

Whereupon  he  would  laugh  happily  and 
answer :  — 

"  See  how  beautifully  I  am  writing.  I  should 
never  have  thought  of  that  remark  if  you  had 
not  been  there." 

"  I  like  to  play  at  feeling  a  guardian  angel," 
she  said  once. 

"  You  can  feel  it  without  the  playing,"  he 
replied,  drawing  his  head  aside  and  looking 
302  ' 


Seeking   Salvation 

round  at  her.  "  When  your  wings  are  over 
me  like  that,  I  do  work  that  I  could  n't  do 
unaided." 

And  she  had  blushed  and  felt  very  happy. 

But  now,  on  this  last  evening,  they  sat  apart 
—  half  the  world  already  between  them  —  and 
talked  constrainedly,  with  long  silences.  For 
the  greater  part  of  the  time  he  shaded  his  face 
with  his  hand,  sparing  himself  the  sight  of  her 
hungered-for  sweetness  and  saving  her  the  sight 
of  the  hunger  he  felt  was  in  his  eyes.  When 
at  last  she  rose  to  bid  him  good-night,  he 
nerved  himself  to  meet  her  gaze  calmly.  And 
then  for  the  first  time  he  was  shocked  at  the 
change  that  the  night  and  the  day  had  wrought 
in  her. 

She  stood  before  him,  infinitely  sweet  and 
simple;  but  more  wan  even  than  she  had  been 
on  that  day  in  the  hospital  when  she  had  learned 
the  loss  of  her  voice.  For  the  still  unvanished 
pathos  of  childhood  that  had  then  smoothed 
her  face  was  gone,  and  the  sterner  pathos  of 
the  woman's  experience  had  taken  its  place. 
Yet  the  interpretation  did  not  come  to  him. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  "  You  are  scarcely 
strong  enough  yet  to  bear  such  an  upheaval  as 
this.  Try  to  have  a  good  sleep."  He  held  the 
393 


Derelicts 

door  for  her  to  pass  out.  And  then,  with  a 
great  gulp,  he  continued,  "  You  must  look  your 
best  to-morrow." 

He  caught  her  soft  cold  hand,  put  it  to  his 
lips,  and  shut  the  door  quickly.  The  prison 
xemed  as  comfort  when  compared  with  this 
torment. 


394' 


CHAPTER    XXIII 

A.N  End  and  a  Beginning 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  he  broke  down 
utterly. 

If  he  had  been  a  strong  man  he  would  not 
have  yielded  to  the  series  of  temptations  that 
had  culminated  in  his  crime  and  his  disgrace. 
Or,  passing  that,  his  spirit  would  not  have  been 
broken  during  the  months  of  his  punishment. 
If  he  had  been  even  of  slightly  robuster  fibre, 
the  sense  of  degradation  would  not  have  pal- 
sied his  life.  He  would  have  gone  at  once  to 
a  new  land  and  made  himself  master  of  his 
destiny.  A  strong  man  would  not  have  been 
found  by  Yvonne,  that  August  morning,  sitting, 
a  self-abhorring  outcast  before  his  rich  uncle's 
door.  He  would  not  have  lost  his  wit  and 
courage,  when  assailed  by  his  prison  compan- 
ion at  Hull.  He  would  not  have  joined  for- 
tunes with  Noakes  in  their  futile  African 
expedition.  A  strong  man  would  not  have 
clung  for  comfort  and  moral  support  to  the 
395     . 


Derelicts 

poor  ridiculous  creature,  his  own  protection  of 
whom  was  that  of  the  woman  rather  than  that  of 
the  man.  A  strong  man  would  not  have  yielded 
to  the  nun  bing  despair  nf  th**  after  solitude 
in  Africa,  n>r  writhed  that  night  in  agony  of  spirit 
upon  the  lonely  star-lit  veldt.  And  lastly,  a 
strong  man  would  not  have  had  that  terror  of 
loneliness  which  had  made  him  in  the  first  place 
cling  to  Yvonne  much  as  a  child,  afraid  of  the 
dark,  clings  to  the  hand  of  another  child  weaker 
than  itself. 

By  the  law  of  evolution  the  strong  survive 
and  the  weak  die.  But  in  the  eternal  struggle 
between  humanity  and  the  pitiless  law,  condi- 
tions are  modified,  and  the  sympathy  of  the 
race,  that  expression  of  revolt  which  we  call 
civilisation,  gives  surviving  power  to  the  weak, 
so  that  not  only  the  strong  man  has  claims  to 
life  and  love.  And  when  the  weak  man  strives 
with  all  his  quivering  fibres  towards  strength, 
he  is  doing  a  greater  deed  than  the  strong  wot 
of 

So  Joyce,  fool  or  hero,  had  performed  an  act 

)f  strength  beyond  his  nature.      The  strain  ot 

v.he  day  had  been  intense.     Every  nerve  in  his 

body  was  stretched  to  breaking-point.     At  last, 

in  the  middle  of  the  night,  as  he  was  pacing  the 


An   End   and   a   Beginning 

room,  one  of  them  seemed  to  snap,  and  he  fell 
forwards  on  to  the  bed  and  broke  into  a  passion 
of  sobbing.  Ashamed  he  buried  his  face  in  the 
blankets  and  bit  them  with  his  teeth.  But  a 
grown  man's  sobbing  is  not  to  be  checked,  like 
a  child's.  It  is  a  terrible  thing,  which  comes 
from  the  soul's  depths  and  convulses  flesh  and 
spirit  to  their  foundations ;  and  it  is  horrible  to 
hear.  The  shuddering  heaves  came  into  his 
throat  and  forced  their  way  in  sound  through 
his  lips.  And  the  utterances  of  pain  came  from 
him,  inarticulate  prayers  to  God  to  help  him, 
and  half-stifled  cries  for  his  love  and  for  Yvonne. 
But  he  knew  that  he  was  wrestling  with  his 
spirit  for  the  last  time,  and  that,  after  this  par- 
oxysm of  agony,  would  come  calm  and  strength 
to  meet  his  fate. 

And  Yvonne,  clad  in  dressing  gown  and 
bare-footed,  with  her  hair  about  her  shoulders, 
stood  trembling  outside  his  door  and  heard. 
Although  his  room  was  not  immediately  above 
hers,  being  over  the  sitting-room,  yet  in  her 
sleeplessness  she  had  listened  for  hours  and 
hours  to  his  movements.  At  last,  obeying  an 
incontrollable  impulse,  she  had  crept  up  the 
stairs.  A  long  time  she  waited,  her  hand  upon 
the  door,  his  name  upon  her  lips,  shaking  from 
397      • 


Derelicts 

head  to  foot  with  the  revelation  of  the  man's 
agony.  Every  sound  was  like  a  stab  in  her 
tender  flesh.  The  warm,  impulsive  old  Yvonne 
within  her  would  have  burst  at  the  first  sob  into 
his  room,  but  the  newer  womanhood  held  her 
back.  When  all  was  silent  she  crept  down- 
stairs again  into  her  bed,  and  lay  there,  throb- 
bing and  shivering  until  the  morning. 

And  Joyce,  unconscious  that  she  had  been  so 
near  to  him,  that  had  he  but  opened  his  door, 
he  would  have  been  caught  in  her  arms  and 
been  given  for  all  eternity  that  which  he  was 
renouncing,  lay  down  in  his  bed  exhausted,  and 
when  the  morning  was  near  at  hand,  sank  into 
heavy  sleep.  He  awoke  later  than  usual.  The 
water  that  Sarah  had  put  for  him  was  nearly 
cold.  He  drew  up  the  blind  and  saw  a  cheer- 
less grey  morning  —  a  fitting  dawn  for  his  new 
life.  The  minor  details  of  the  day  before  him 
presented  themselves  painfully.  The  first  was 
the  necessity  of  being  well  shaven,  groomed  and 
dressed.  He  drew  from  the  drawer  the  clothes 
of  decent  life  that  he  could  now  so  seldom  afford 
to  wear.  The  last  time  he  had  put  them  on 
was  three  weeks  ago,  when  he  had  taken  Yvonne 
to  a  ballad  concert  at  St.  James's  Hall.  He 
remembered  how,  in  her  bright  way,  she  had 
39? 


An   End   and   a   Beginning 

said,  on  their  way  thither,  "  You  look  so  hand 
some  and  distinguished,  I  feel  quite  proud." 

And  now  he  was  to  wear  them  at  her  wedding 
with  another  man.  And  he  was  to  give  her 
away. 

He  had  regained  his  nerve,  felt  equal  to  the 
task.  After  dressing  with  scrupulous  care,  he 
slowly  went  down  to  breakfast,  —  his  last  break- 
fast with  Yvonne.  He  contemplated  the  fact 
with  the  fatalistic  calmness  with  which  men  con- 
demned to  death  often  face  their  last  meal  on 
earth.  Yvonne  had  not  yet  appeared.  Sarah 
had  not  even  brought  up  the  breakfast.  He 
sat  down  and  waited,  unfolded  his  halfpenny 
morning  paper  and  tried  to  read.  After  a  time 
he  became  aware  that  he  was  studying  the  ad- 
vertisements.    So  he  laid  it  aside. 

Presently  he  went  up  to  his  room  to  get  a 
handkerchief,  and  on  his  return  to  the  landing 
he  noticed  that  Yvonne's  bedroom  door  was 
ajar.  She  was  stirring,  evidently.  He  knocked 
gently  and  called  her  name.  There  was  no 
reply.  Perhaps  she  was  still  sleeping,  he 
thought ;  but  it  was  odd  that  her  door  should 
be  open.  He  remrned  to  the  sitting-room, 
wandered  about  nervously,  looked  out  of  the 
window  into  the  dismai  street.     The  pavement 


Derelicts 

was  wet,  people  were  hurrying  by  with  umbrellas 
up,  the  capes  of  drivers  gleamed  miserably  in 
the  misty  air.  He  turned  away  and  put  some 
coals  on  a  sulky  fire,  and  again  took  up  the 
paper.  But  an  undefined  feeling  of  uneasiness 
began  to  creep  over  him.  It  was  long  past  nine 
o'clock.  He  went  again  and  knocked  at 
Yvonne's  door.  It  opened  a  little  wider  and 
he  saw  by  the  light  m  the  room  that  the  blind 
had  been  drawn  up.  He  called  her  in  loud 
tones.  His  voice  seemed  to  fall  in  a  void. 
Agitated,  he  ventured  to  take  a  swift  glance  into 
the  room.  The  bed  was  empty.  There  was  no 
Yvonne. 

He  went  back  and  rang  the  bell  violently. 
After  a  short  interval  Sarah  appeared,  leisurely 
bringing  in  the  breakfast-tray. 

"  Where  is  Madame  Latour  ?  "  asked  Joyce. 

"  Oh,  she  went  out  early,  and  said  you 
were  n't  to  wait  breakfast  for  her." 

"  At  what  time  did  she  go  out  ?  *' 

"  Shortly  after  eight." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Joyce. 

"  I  think  she  was  took  ill,  and  was  going  to 
see  a  doctor,"  said  Sarah,  unloading  the  tray 
noisily. 

"  Did  Madame  Latour  tell  you  so?" 

AGO 


An    End   and   a   Beginning 

"  No.  But  she  was  looking  so  bad  I  was 
frightened  to  see  her." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Joyce,  not  wishing  to 
show  the  servant  his  agitation.  "  She  will  be 
back  soon.    Yes,  you  can  leave  the  breakfast." 

Sarah  quitted  the  room  with  her  heavy,  scuf- 
fling step.  Joyce  remained  by  the  fire  tug- 
ging at  his  moustache,  his  mind  filled  with 
nameless  anxieties.  The  presentiment  of  ill 
grew  in  intensity.  Why  had  Yvonne  left  the 
house  at  that  early  hour  ?  Sarah's  suggestion 
was  manifestly  absurd.  If  Yvonne  had  been 
poorly,  she  would  have  sent  for  a  doctor.  Yet 
the  servant's  last  remark  frightened  him.  He 
remembered  Yvonne's  pallor  of  the  night  before. 
A  dreadful  surmise  began  to  dawn  upon  him. 
Had  he  been  blind,  all  the  way  through,  and 
condemned  her  to  a  fate  impossible  to  bear  ? 
Once,  in  South  Africa,  he  had  seen  an  inno- 
cent man  sentenced  to  death.  The  picture  of 
the  man's  face  in  its  wistful  despair  rose  before 
him.  It  was  terribly  like  Yvonne's.  Had  she, 
then,  pronounced  sentence  on  herself? 

He  walked  to  and  fro  in  feverish  helpless- 
ness, his  heart  weighed  down  by  the  new 
load.  The  cheap  American  clock  on  the 
mantel-piece  struck  ten.  There  came,  soon 
^  401- 


Derelicts 

after,  a  knock  at  the  door.  Joyce  sprang  to 
open  it.  But  it  was  only  the  boy  from  the 
shop  wanting  to  know  if  any  one  was  coming 
down.  Joyce  put  his  hand  to  his  forehead. 
He  had  entirely  forgotten  Mr.  Runcle's  ab- 
sence and  his  own  consequent  responsibility. 

"  You  can  take  the  money  for  any  book 
outside,  Tommy,"  he  said,  after  a  little  reflec- 
tion. "  If  a  customer  wants  anything  inside, 
come  up  and  call  me." 

The  boy  went  away,  proud  at  being  left  in 
charge.  Joyce  filled  a  cup  with  the  rapidly 
cooling  coffee,  and  drank  it  at  a  draught.  The 
minutes  crept  on.  If  his  wild  and  dreadful 
fancies  were  groundless,  where  could  Yvonne 
be  ?  She  could  not  have  chosen  a  time  before 
the  shops  were  open  to  make  any  necessary 
purchases  before  the  ceremony.  Or  had  she 
gone  out  of  the  house  so  as  to  avoid  spending 
1  painful  morning  in  his  company  ?  But  that 
was  unlike  Yvonne.  At  last  he  descended, 
and  stood  bareheaded  in  the  raw  air,  gazing 
up  and  down  the  street. 

"  I  've  taken  eightpence  already,"  said  the 
boy,  handing  him  a  pile  of  coppers. 

Joyce  took  them  from  him  absently,,  and 
put  them  in  his  pocket,  while  Tommy  went 
402 


An   End   and   a   Beginning 

back  to  his  seat  on  the  upturned  box,  and  re- 
sumed his  occupation  of  blowing  on  his  chilled 
fingers.  No  sign  of  Yvonne.  Several  passers- 
by  turned  round  and  looked  at  Joyce.  In 
his  well-fitting  clothes,  and  with  his  refined, 
thorough-bred  air,  he  seemed  an  incongruous 
figure  standing  hatless  in  the  doorway  of  the 
dingy  secondhand  book-shop. 

Presently  he  became  aware  of  an  elderly  man 
trying  to  pass  him.  He  stepped  aside  with 
apologies,  and  followed  the  customer. 

"  Are  you  serving  here  ?  "  asked  the  latter, 
with  some  diffidence. 

On  Joyce's  affirmative,  he  enquired  after  two 
editions  of  "  Berquin,"  which  he  had  seen  in 
Runcle's  catalogue.  Joyce  took  one  from  the 
shelves,  —  the  original  edition.  It  was  priced 
two  guineas.  The  customer  haggled,  then 
wished  to  see  the  other.  As  this  was  on  the 
top  shelf  at  the  back  part  of  the  shop,  Joyce 
aad  to  mount  the  ladder  and  hunt  for  it  in 
the  dusky  light.  While  thus  employed,  he 
felt  something  sweep  against  the  foot  of  the 
ladder,  and,  looking  down,  he  saw  Yvonne. 
She  shot  a  quick  upward  glance,  and  hurriedly 
disappeared. 

His  heart  gave  a  great  bound  as  he  saw  her^ 
402 


Derelicts 

and  he  dropped  the  books  he  was  holding.  He 
could  not  seek  any  more  for  the  "  Berquin." 
In  another  moment  he  was  by  the  side  of  the 
customer. 

"  We  must  have  sold  the  other  copy.  How 
much  will  you  give  for  this  ? " 

"  Thirty-five  shillings." 

"  You  can  have  it,"  said  Joyce. 

Never  was  book  tied  up  at  greater  speed. 
He  thrust  it  into  the  man's  hand,  received  the 
money  without  looking  at  it,  and  left  the  elderly 
man  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  shop,  greatly 
astonished  at  the  haste  of  the  transaction. 

Joyce  flew  up  the  stairs  into  the  sitting- 
room. 

"  Oh,  where  —  "  he  began. 

Then  he  stopped,  dazed  and  bewildered, 
for  Yvonne,  her  arms  outstretched,  her  head 
thrown  back,  her  lips  parted,  and  a  great 
yearning  light  in  her  eyes,  came  swiftly  to 
him  from  where  she  stood,  uttering  a  little  cry, 
and  in  another  moment  was  sobbing  in  his 
arms. 

"  Oh,  my  love,  my  dear,  dear  love ! "  she 
cried,  "I  could  not  leave  you  —  take  me  — 
for  always.  I  love  you  —  I  love  you  —  I 
could  n't  leave  you  !  " 

404 


An   End   and   a   Beginning 

"  Yvonne,"  he  cried  hoarsely,  his  pulses 
throbbing  like  a  great  engine's  piston-rod,  in 
the  tremendous  amazement,  as  he  held  her  — 
how  tightly  he  did  not  know  —  and  gazed 
.down  wildly  into  her  face, "  Yvonne,  what  are 
you  saying  ?  What  is  it  ?  Tell  me  —  for 
God's  sake  —  the  marriage  —  Everard  ?  " 

Then  she  threw  back  her  head  further 
against  his  arm,  and  their  eyes  met  and  hung 
upon  each  other  for  a  breathless  space.  And 
there  was  that  in  Yvonne's  eyes  —  "the  light 
that  never  was  on  sea  or  land  "  —  that  no  man 
yet  had  seen  or  dreamed  of  seeing  there.  The 
straining,  passionate  love  too  deep  for  smiling, 
glorified  her  pure  face. 

"  There  will  be  no  marriage,"  she  murmured 
faintly,  still  holding  him  with  her  eyes,  "  I 
went  to  Everard  this  morning." 

She  raised  her  lips  almost  unconsciously 
toward  him,  and  then  the  man's  whole  ex- 
istence was  drowned  in  the  kiss. 

For  many  moments  they  scarcely  spoke. 
Passion  plays  its  part  in  swift  burning  utter- 
ances and  tumultuous  silences.  At  last,  she 
freed  herself  gently  and  moved  towards  the 
lire.  But  only  to  be  taken  or.ce  again  into  his 
clasp. 

405. 


Derelicts 

*'  Oh,  my  darling,  my  darling,  is  this  joy 
madness,  or  is  it  real  ?  " 

"  It  is  real,"  said  Yvonne.  "  Nothing  can 
ever  part  us,  until  we  die." 

He  helped  her  off  with  her  hat  and  jacket 
and  led  her  to  the  great  armchair  by  the  fire 
and  knelt  down  by  her  side. 

"  Oh,  Stephen  dear,"  she  said  in  piteous 
happiness,  "  it  has  been  such  suffering." 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said  tenderly. 

"  I  did  n't  know  that  you  cared  about  me  — 
in  this  way  —  until  last  night.  I  tried  to  make 
you  tell  me — Stephen  darling,  why  didn't 
you  ?  I  was  bound  to  go  to  Everard  —  I  had 
promised,  and  he  wanted  me  —  and  what  could 
I  tell  him  ?  I  could  n't  say  to  him,  dear,  that 
I  would  go  on  for  ever  living  on  your  dear 
charity,  a  burden  upon  you  —  yes,  in  a  sense 
I  must  be  one  —  rather  than  keep  my  promise 
and  marry  him,  could  I,  dear .?  I  could  only 
refet  Vim  to  you  —  and  when  you  said  I  must 
go,  it  was  miserable,  for  I  hungered  all  the  time 
to  stay.  And  I  knew  you  were  sad,  it  was 
natural  —  but  I  thought  you  found  you  did 
not  love  me  enough  to  want  me  as  a  wife  and 
felt  it  your  duty  to  give  me  up.  Whv  did  you 
give  me  up  when  you  loved  me  so  ? "' 
406    ' 


An   End   and  a   Beginning 

"  I  will  tell  you  all,  some  day,  dear,  not 
now,"  said  Joyce.  "But  one  thing  —  I  did 
not  know  either  that  you  loved  me  —  like  this. 
When  did  you  begin  to  love  me,  Yvonne  ? " 

"  I  think  I  must  have  begun  in  the  years 
and  years  ago  —  but  I  only  knew  it  last  night 

—  knew  it  as   I  do  now,"  she   added,  with  a 
tremor  in  her  voice^ 

She  closed  her  eyes,  gave  herself  up  for  a 
flooded  moment  to  the  lingering  sense  of  the 
first  great  kiss  she  had  ever  given.  And 
before  she  opened  them,  the  memory  had 
melted  into  actuality  as  she  felt  his  lips  again 
meet  hers. 

"  Thank  God,  I  have  got  you,  my  own 
dear  love,"  she  murmured.  "  It  has  been  a 
hard  battle  for  you  —  this  morning.  I  went 
out  as  soon  as  1  dared  —  to  go  to  him.  I 
seemed  to  be  going  to  do  an  awful  thing  —  to 
give  him  that  pain  for  our  sakes.  He  told  me 
I  had  not  treated  him  wickedly  —  but  I  felt 
as  if  I  had  been  committing  murder,  until  I  saw 
your  face  at  the  door.  1  told  him  all  —  all 
that  I  knew  about  my  own  feelings  and  yours. 
I    said    that   you    did  not  know   I   loved  you 

—  that  your  noble-heartedness  was  making  the 
sacrifice  —  that  I  would  marry  him  and  leave 

407    . 


Derelicts 

you  and  never  see  you  again,  and  be  a  devoted 
wife  to  him,  if  he  wished  it,  but  that  my  love 
was  given  to  you.  And  he  looked  all  the  time 
at  me  with  an  iron-grey  face,  and  scarcely  spoke 
a  word.  Tell  me,  Stephen  dear,  does  it  pain 
you  to  hear  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Joyce,  softly.  "  Your  heart  has 
been  bursting  with  it.  It  is  best  for  us  to 
share  it,  as  we  shall  share  all  things,  joy  and 
pain,  to  the  far  end." 

"  I  shall  fee)  lighter  for  telling  you.  It  was 
so  terrible  to  see  him  —  oh,  Stephen,  if  I  had 
not  loved  you,  I  couldn't  have  borne  it  —  he 
seemed  stricken.  Oh,  why  is  there  all  this  pain 
in  the  world  ?     And  to  think  that  I  —  Yvonne 

—  should  have  had  to  inflict  it  —  either  on  him, 
who  has  been  good  and  kind  to  me,  or  on  you, 
whom  I  love  better  than  I  thought  I  could 
love  anything  in  the  world  !  And  when  I  had 
ended,  he  said,  *  He  is  young,  and  I  am  old ; 
he  has  had  all  the  sufferings  and  despair  of  life, 
and  my  lot  has  been  cast  in  pleasant  places ; 
he  has  come  out  of  the  furnace  with  love  and 
charity  in  his  heart,  and  I  have  pampered  my 
pride  and  uncharitableness.     Go  back  to  him 

—  and  I  pray  God  to  bless  you  both.'  He 
spoke  as  if  each  word  was  a  knife  driven  into 

408  , 


An   End   and  a   Beginning 

him  —  and  his  face — I  shall  never  forget  it 
—  it  seemed  to  grow  old,  and  ashen,  and 
hardened." 

She  covered  her  face  with  her  hands  for  a 
moment,  and  then,  suddenly,  the  memory  of 
the  night  flashing  through  her,  she  dashed  them 
away  with  a  woman's  fierceness  and  clasped  his 
head. 

"  But  your  need  was  greater,  a  million  times 
greater  than  his,"  she  cried  in  ringing  tones, 
"  and  your  sufferings  greater,  and  your  heart 
nobler,  and  I  should  have  died  if  I  had  not 
come  to  you  —  you  are  my  king,  my  lord, 
my  God,  my  everything." 

In  the  formally  appointed  hotel  sitting-room, 
where  Yvonne  had  twice  parted  from  him,  sat 
Everard  Chisely,  with  grey,  withered  face.  The 
blow  had  fallen  heavily.  He  had  hungered  for 
her  of  late  years  with  a  poor,  human,  unideal- 
ising  passion.  The  pitifulness  of  it  had  galled 
his  pride,  and  he  had  striven  to  put  her  out  of 
his  thoughts.  He  had  lived  an  austere  life, 
seekmg  in  an  unfamiliar  asceticism  to  conquer 
the  inherited,  unregenerate  cravings  for  a  fuller 
aestnetic  and  emotional  existence.  Yet  he  had 
longed  intensely  for  the  death  of  the  man  who 
409 


Derelicts 

stood  between  himself  and  Yvonne.  Twice  a 
year  his  agent  in  Paris  had  reported  news  of 
Amedee  Bazouge.  Such  communications  he 
had  opened  with  trembhng  fingers :  the  man 
was  still  alive ;  he  prayed  passionate  prayers 
that  the  murder  in  his  heart  might  not  be 
counted  to  him  as  a  sin.  At  last,  in  the  New 
Zealand  spring,  came  the  news  of  Bazouge's 
death.  His  blood  tingled  like  the  working  sap 
in  the  trees.  He  could  not  wait.  He  came 
and  found  Yvonne. 

For  thirty-six  hours  he  had  become  a  young 
man  again,  treading  on  air,  hurrying  on  events 
with  a  lover's  impatience.  And  now  the  crash 
had  come.  He  was  an  old  man.  He  sat  by 
his  untasted  breakfast,  and  covered  his  face 
in  his  hands.  His  life  rose  up  before  him, 
self-complacent,  dignified,  immaculate.  Yet, 
somehow,  he  felt  like  a  Pharisee.  He  was  a 
Churchman  first,  a  Christian  afterwards.  His 
religion  had  given  him  very  little  comfort.  It 
had  taken  Yvonne  from  him  once,  at  a  time 
when  he  might  have  won  her  to  him  forever, 
and  it  had  brought  him  no  consolation.  A  man 
does  not  often  get  a  glimpse  at  his  own  soul ; 
when  he  does,  he  finds  it  rather  a  pitiable  sight. 
The  Bishop  saw  in  its  depths  poignant  regret 
410 


An   End   and   a   Beginning 

that  he  then  had  not  loved  the  woman  enough 
to  sin  for  her  sake.  And  there,  too,  was  re- 
vealed to  him  miserably  that  outraged  pride, 
disillusion,  the  traditions  of  social  morality,  the 
authority  of  the  Church's  ordinances  —  all  ex- 
ternais  —  had  been  the  leading  factors  of  his  life's 
undoing.  A  great  wish  rose  amid  the  bitter- 
ness of  his  heart  that  he  had  been,  like  Stephen, 
one  of  the  publicans  and  sinners,  upon  whom 
could  shine  the  Light  of  the  World. 

Joyce  and  Yvonne  were  married  one  morning 
quietly  at  a  registrar's,  and  came  back  to  con- 
tinue the  day's  routine.  The  old  bookseller 
did  not  appear  astonished  when  Joyce  informed 
him  of  the  unusual  change  of  relationship. 

"  You  have  both  had  your  troubles,"  he  said, 
shrewdly,  looking  up  over  his  spectacles,  and 
keeping  his  thumb  in  the  volume  of  Origen  he 
was  reading.  "  Any  one  can  see  that.  You 
would  n't  be  here  otherwise.  And  I  'm  not 
enquiring  into  them.  But  I  hope  they  're 
ended.  And  now,"  he  continued,  rising  with  an 
old  man's  stiffness,  "  I  've  got  some  old  Madeira 
that  I  bought  thirty  years  ago  with  a  job-lot 
of  thinp^s  out  of  a  gentleman's  chambers,  and 
I  'd  like  to  open  a  bottle  in  your  honour." 
411 


Derelicts 

Joyce  brought  Yvonne  down  to  the  back- 
parlour.  The  wine  came  out  of  the  dirt-en- 
crusted bottle  like  sunshine  breaking  through  a 
cloud,  and  gladdened  their  hearts.  And  that 
was  their  marriage  feast.  Thus  began  the 
wedded  life  of  these  two.  Years  of  struggle, 
poverty,  and  ostracism  lay  before  them.  Thev 
faced  it  all  fearlessly.  To  each  of  them  the 
long-denied  love  had  come,  at  last,  new 
and  vivifying,  changing  the  meaning  of  exist- 
ence. Yet  the  final  word  of  mutual  revelation 
awaited  the  loosening  touch.  It  came  with 
tragic  unexpectedness. 

One  evening,  not  long  after  their  marriage, 
Joyce,  looking  through  the  shop  copy  of  "  The 
Islington  Gazette,"  caught  the  head-line,  "  Sal- 
vation lassie  commits  suicide  in  New  River." 
A  presentiment  of  what  would  follow  flashed 
upon  him.  It  was  true.  Annie  Stevens  had 
killed  herself. 

"  Good  God  !  "  he  said  involuntarily. 

Yvonne  looked  up  from  her  sewing,  and 
grew  alarmed  at  the  distress  on  his  face. 

"  What  is  it  ?  " 

He  was  silent  for  a  few  moments.  To  tell* 
her  would  involve  long  explanations.  Yvonne 
knew  of  Annie  Stevens  in  connection  with 
413 


An   End  and  a   Beginning 

his  disgrace  on  the  tour  of  "  The  Diamond 
Door,"  but  he  had  not  spoken  of  after  meet- 
ings. Yvonne  put  Ker  work  aside,  in  her  quick 
way,  and  came  and  sat  down  on  the  footstool  by 
'his  feet.  As  he  bent  and  kissed  her,  she  drev» 
his  arm  round  her  neck,  holding  his  hand. 

*  What  has  pained  you  ?  " 

And  then  he  told  her  the  whole  of  the  girl's 
miserable  story,  her  love  for  him,  her  degra- 
dation and  downfall,  and  her  wild  idea  of 
atonement. 

"  And  this  is  the  end,"  he  said,  showing  her 
the  paragraph. 

"  Poor  girl !  "  said  Yvonne,  deeply  touched. 
"It  was  so  pathetically  impossible,  was  n't 
it?" 

"  Yes,  dear,"  Joyce  answered.  "  I,  too, 
know  that." 

"  What  ? " 

"  The  tragic  futility  of  such  self-crucifixion. 
I  have  never  told  you  the  history  of  that  night 
—  why  I  gave  you  up  —  and  the  part  this 
poor  dead  girl  played  in  it." 

In  a  low  voice,  he  went  over  the  old  ground 
of  degradation  and  his  longing  for  atonement, 
ar-d  briefly  laid  before  her  the  facts  of  his 
renunciation. 

413    . 


Derelicts 

'*  I  know  now,"  he  concluded,  "  that  It  could 
only  add  misery  to  misery.  Nothing  thrt  a 
man  or  a  woman  alone  can  do  can  restore  lest 
honour  and  self-reverence.  No  fasting  or 
penance  or  sacrifice  is  of  any  use." 

Yvonne  drew  her  face  away  from  him,  so  a- 
to  see  him  better.  Pain  was  in  her  eyes.  Her 
lips  quivered. 

"  Then  —  Stephen  —  dear  —  is  it  still .  the 
same  with  you  about  the  prison  —  the  old 
horror  and  shame  ?  " 

"My  dearest,"  he  said  tenderly,  "  I  said  man 
alone  was  powerless.  It  is  the  touch  of  your 
lips  that  has  wiped  away  all  stain  for  ever." 

They  looked  deep  into  each  other's  eyes 
for  a  long,  speechless  moment.  And  then 
Yvonne,  like  a  fooHsh  woman,  fell  a-sobbing 
on  his  knees. 

"  Oh,  thank  God,  my  dear,  thank  God  \  '* 
she  said. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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